The Night of the Bartender
by AutumnAnn
Summary: It's been years since James West was a field agent. But a mystery from the past calls him to take up old skills again.
1. Chapter 1 - Dogtown

The horse and rider picked their way through the snow on the dirt street. It had been falling heavily for several hours, since just after midnight. A rare street lamp reflected off the large flakes in the air and on the ground, giving more light than must have been usual for this hour of the morning. The damp cold struck through to their bones.

He'd been right to leave the train and hire a horse. No train came into Dogtown last night; and possibly not tomorrow. If he'd waited til morning, the horse might not have made it, either. He was cold, tired and saddle-sore as he hadn't been in years. _We used to do this all the time._

Magalia was the town's proper name, although it was only used on official papers and in certain circles. It was an old mining town, long since gone bust and just scraping along. James West had never been here before, only nearby, but the type of town was familiar to him. _Ten years behind the cities; twenty on the wrong side of the tracks. This is definitely the wrong side of the tracks._

He had to find the livery, and then the hotel. The hotel would be at the other end of town, a few minutes away at most. But first, he wanted to find a particular building. _Grady's. There it is._ Just a name painted above the closed door. The small high windows were shuttered, but yellow light peeked through the cracks and around the door. He dismounted, hitched the horse, and approached. _Music? _ A lively jig; fiddle and whistle. It ended and he heard quiet voices.

The door was locked. A gray-haired man opened it to his knock. "We're closed."

"May I come in anyway?" West tried to look friendly and unassuming. "I've just ridden in and I'd like to get warm for a minute."

Unimpressed, the man looked him and the horse over; then shrugged and stepped aside.

"Thank you." West removed his hat, knocking the wet snow off, and entered.

A short bar took up the room to his right. The wall behind held no artwork or mirror, only sturdy shelves of bottles and glasses. Across the room to his left sat two men in the corner near a stove; one old and holding the fiddle, one in his twenties and cradling a guitar. A decrepit upright piano stood nearby. The man at the door returned to them, sat and picked up a long whistle. They conferred briefly and started up again.

West sat down at a table near a radiator. After a minute, he reached to touch it; it was ice cold. The stove produced the only heat in the room. _Well, it's warmer than outside_. Noises came through the radiator pipes, tapping and clanging. The musicians played on softly with few pauses, sometimes changing tunes without a break.

Finally, a muffled belch and thump came from the cellar. Several moments later, the noise in the pipes changed to a gurgle and soft hiss. The men cheered quietly. "Maith thú, a chara!" There was an answering whoop from below. They struck up another tune and the fiddler began to sing softly, "Níl na lá, tá na la, níl na lá, tá ar maidin"

As the song went on, West could hear the clink of tools, then footsteps on stairs. Someone was in the back room now, and the sound of pots and dishes. "**Buailim ****suas****,** **buailim** síos, **buailim** cleamhan ar bhean a leanna, cuirim giní óir ar a' mbord". She poked her head around the door, with a mischievous grin. "'S ná bí ag ól anseo ar maidin."

She saw West and made a face, but continued the song til the end. _Of course she can sing_. He stared openly. She was smaller than he expected. The room was too dim to be certain of her exact hair color, but he thought it was a reddish brown, twisted back in a braid stuffed down the back of her shirt. She wore baggy jeans, and a man's ragged tweed coat. Large dark eyes were familiar in a heavily smudged face. _Not a beautiful face…but interesting_.

She set a full mug of coffee down on the nearest table. "We're closed."

"I know. I just came in to get warm. I've been riding all night."

The whistle player stirred. "Fear rialtais."

'I ndáiríre?" It sounded sarcastic. She went on talking to them in English, ignoring West completely. "That part better come soon. I'm running out of ways to jury rig that boiler." She drank down half the coffee in one go and sat back, closing her eyes. "Wake me in five?"

"Dúisífidh." _That must mean yes._ She put her head down on the table, cradled on her arms. The fiddler began a slow air, and she snorted into her elbow. _A lullaby_. Her breathing slowly deepened and she slept.

In less than five minutes, they heard a spill of footsteps from above. West realized that the staircase to the top floor had been walled away from this room and now entered onto the kitchen. A young boy, perhaps six or seven years old, swung around the corner. He wore a nightshirt covered by a thick coat, and sockless shoes. "Miz Grady?" He stopped. "Oh."

"Mmph." She lifted her head and wiped her eyes and face, spreading the soot even more. "Thomas. The very man." A deep breath as she dragged herself back to alertness. "The heat's coming back. There's hot water on the stove; take a pitcher up to your parents. And tell your ma that since I've been up all night with a sick boiler, I won't need her at breakfast. But I'd dearly appreciate help at lunch, if she feels up to it."

"Yes, ma'am." A ruckus ensued in the back room. Then he appeared in the door again. "Porridge?"

"Up all night with a sick boiler? Whaddaya want, a five course meal?" She mocked his outrage, arms outstretched; then relented. "Porridge. And bacon and eggs and toast. You won't starve." She grinned at his relief, managing to look about six years old herself. "I'll start the bacon in a little while. Eggs and toast to order. Now, git."

"Can I have marmalade?"

"I don't know, Thomas. Is there some physical reason which would prevent you?"

He figured it out quickly. "_May_ I have marmalade, Miss Grady?"

"Yes, Thomas, I think you may." Laughing, she made a sweeping motion. "Scoot."

The boy scooted upstairs with the pitcher. West stirred. "That sounds good."

She shrugged. "I hear they do a very nice breakfast at the hotel. You warm enough yet?"

"I'm getting there." The guitar player was packing up. "May I buy a whiskey?"

"Come back at ten, when we open. 'Night, Brian." A wave to the young man as he went out the front door. The old men stayed settled in by the stove.

"May I buy breakfast here?"

"I don't serve meals, except to the boarders." Losing patience, she cut him off. "No, we don't have any rooms available."

Nettled, West snapped back. "I'll pay you whiskey prices for a cup of coffee."

"You'll pay me nothing for a cup of coffee!" She matched him snap for snap, eyes blazing. "And then you'll leave!" She stormed into the kitchen and reappeared with the pot and a second mug. "Cream or sugar?"

"Just black." The mug hit the table in front of him and was filled. She refilled her own on the way back to the kitchen.

When she returned, he tried again. "I'm sorry. It's been a long night." He gave her his best disarming smile. "Good coffee."

She didn't smile back. "You know, pushy doesn't get any better just 'cause you slap a trowelful of charm on top of it."

_That used to work better. Okay._ He sipped scalding coffee. "You always dress like that?"

"Mister, I don't know if you've ever tried to fix a boiler in a skirt." She looked at him over the mug. "But let me assure you, it doesn't help the boiler and it does the skirt no good whatsoever."

"You sure?'

"Tell you what. Next time it breaks, I'll call you right over. I'm sure we can find something in your size." West laughed, as did the musicians. She didn't. "I'll put on girly clothes before ten. Wouldn't want to frighten the horses."

He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer to the next question. _Well, pushy is as pushy does_. "No girls here anymore?"

She didn't bother to pretend surprise or offense. "That goes back quite a ways. Nope, no girls. If that's what you're looking for, try Vickie's across the road. But she doesn't open til ten, either."

He could feel his eyes widen. "No, that's not what I'm looking for." _All right, I get it. I push you, you push me. Fine. _This was not going well.

She didn't bother to ask exactly what he was looking for, but just waited for him to finish his coffee. He took his time, but eventually it was gone. She held the door for him. "Go right two blocks, then right over the tracks and up the rise. You can't miss it."

"Where's the livery?"

"Nearby. The hotel should take care of it for you. "

He tipped his hat. "Thank you. And thanks for the coffee." He dug a silver dollar out of his pocket and flipped it inside, onto his table.

He was unhitching the horse when he felt something smack him in the back, right where the suspenders crossed. Startled, he spun round, reaching for his gun. The door slammed closed. There was an indentation in the snow at his feet; he holstered his gun and dug into it In the dim light, the silver dollar gleamed wetly in his hand.


	2. Chapter 2 - Vickie's

It was past two when West returned. He'd settled in at the hotel, had a good breakfast and slept for hours. After stopping at the livery, he found lunch at a self-styled café near the rail station. The building creaked against the wind and under the weight of the wet snow, and the burnt coffee couldn't cut the taste of rancid grease, but the customers and staff liked to talk. Grady's was a popular subject and they'd welcomed his interest. _Almost as if they'd been expecting it_.

The outer door was still closed against the weather, but it was unlocked. He was struck by the difference between the old saloon and the shack he had just left. The shutters were fastened back and light entered through fairly clean glass and thin curtains. The tables were wiped and the floor had been swept sometime this week. Lunch was good, if aroma was any indication. And the heat was still on.

"Beer, please."

The bored man behind the bar picked up a glass. "Light or dark?"

_Odd question for a dive_. "Which is better?"

"They're both good."

"Dark." It was pitch black, bracing and excellent. "Where do you get this?"

"We make our own."

West leaned his back against the bar and surveyed the room. Three men in business suits had papers and beer glasses spread over a table near the windows. Two old men were playing checkers near the stove; one drinking whiskey and the other, tea. The whistle player from the previous night leaned his chair into a corner, cap pulled over his eyes. He lifted it briefly to look back at West, then returned to his nap.

West turned back to the bar. "When does the music start?"

"Whenever they show up." The barman was a real talker. West paid him to refill the glass and claimed the table nearest the kitchen.

He could just hear through the wall. One voice belonged to the mechanic. _The other must be Thomas' mother_. She had a slight accent, possibly German or Eastern European.

"Why do they come? Do they make trouble?"

"Nah, they're mostly harmless." An icebox or oven opened and closed. The mechanic's tone was light. "I think of Grady's as their senior year abroad. They're _so_ wet behind the ears and just burning to make their names." She snickered, then stopped. "Oh, lord, I've got to talk to Vickie. She likes to play with them a little before she throws them back. I mean, she doesn't hurt 'em any," She rushed to reassure her friend. "But it's not good. Anyway, this one's different."

"How?"

"He's _old_." Running water obscured the next words. "…doesn't look like the world's oldest trainee, so I don't know what's…" More water. "…be underfoot for a while, and then he'll leave. If he talks to you, just tell him the truth."

"Maybe I will ask him why he is here."

"If you want to. Problem is, he doesn't have to answer, and he doesn't have to tell the truth. You do."

"That is not fair." The other woman was decisive. "Why do I have to tell the truth, if he doesn't?"

"It's right, and it's easy. You don't have to remember what you said." Someone started chopping something. "And if you tell the truth, even though they don't believe it, they can't disprove it."

"He won't believe it?"

"Never in a million years. Doesn't matter." A yawn and a scraping sound. "I'll tell you this, though….Hey, you shouldn't be lifting that, let me."

"You are smaller than I am."

"I'm not small, I'm concentrated." Whatever it was landed heavily. "And I'm not ready to have a baby next week"

"I am ready to have a baby this week. I was ready to have a baby last week."

"Don't tell me, tell the baby." Laughter, punctuated by a louder yawn.

"Go to bed."

"I can't, I have to run over to Vickie's."

"Vickie is a big girl, she can handle him."

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure he can handle her, but if he decides to put her in jail, _I'm_ going to have to handle him. I don't feel like it. I'm busy."

"How will you handle him?"

"I'd think of something. One thing's for sure. He ever shows up at that…bloody hour of the morning again, I swear I'll put him out like the cat, if I have to take a broom to him."

"At least you did not feed him. If you feed them, they never go away. Ask Bart." Another yawn. "Go to bed."

"When I get back. Ten minutes."

"If you go to Vickie's, in ten minutes someone will come for your bag and you will be gone all afternoon." The chopping started up again more violently. "If you want, I will go to Vickie's and ask her to come here."

"You can't. Mira, no!"

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, Bart would kill me. You can't go over there."

"You are not my mother."

"Your mother would kill me. He…eck, Vickie would kill me. Don't you know you'd be bad for business?"

"Maggie!" Mira was genuinely shocked, then started to giggle. The laughter grew until they both were roaring and nearly breathless. The men on West's side of the wall looked nervous.

It subsided and the men settled. Maggie yawned again.

"Go to bed." Mira repeated it more forcefully. "Go!"

"All right, I'm going, I'm going!" A chair scraped. "If there's heavy lifting, get Jonah or one of the boyos. Tap on the door if you need me."

The chopping resumed and footsteps crossed the floor, pausing to check the main room. She didn't enter, so West remained out of sight, but the barman tilted his head slightly in his direction.

Maggie made a disgusted sound. "And sometimes you don't feed them, and they _still_ never go away. Ptchah!" A rustle of skirt and a door slammed.

The whistle player was smiling beatifically under his cap. West finished his beer and shrugged into his coat and hat. _Time to take a walk across the road to Vickie's._

Standing on the boardwalk, West looked straight ahead and then to both sides. There was no 'Vickie's' in sight. Directly across, an ornate sign reading 'The Queen's Arms' hung over a door that looked likely. _Might as well._ He crossed and went in.

It wasn't busy, but brightly lit and noisy for the time of day. A young man in a dingy shirt and sleeve garters was playing a tinny piano. There were girls; more girls than men at this hour. West headed for the long bar and ordered another beer. The barman didn't ask which kind.

"Buy a girl a drink, Mister?"

West signaled the barman for an overpriced whiskey. It came out of a bottle from under the counter. _Probably mostly weak tea._ The young blonde led him to a table, leaning over too far as he held her chair.

"What's your name, Mister?' She was trying to look wide-eyed and flirtatious at the same time. The effect was grating. _Honey, pick one. Either one_. "I'm Monique." _Sure you are._

'How do you do, Miss Monique?" The disarming smile worked this time, and she giggled. "I'm…"

"James West."

He looked up at the woman coming around the bar. "Torrey!" He sprang to his feet and came forward to grasp her outstretched hand. "Torrey Elner. Or is it Vickie?"

She smiled. "Vickie's what I use now. But Torrey'll do." She motioned the young blonde back to the piano and took her chair without waiting for help. "Alonzo, we'll have a bottle and two glasses here. And take care of the gentleman's bill." She saluted him with a glass of real whiskey. "I never got to thank you for what you did for Fred."

"It was an honor. He was a good agent and a good man." He raised his own glass. "To Fred."

"To Fred." They both drank.

"You've done well for yourself."

"I think so. Better'n most. You've done all right, too." She looked at her glass, turning it around on the table. "You here for Maggie Grady?"

"Yeah." _No reason to hide it. Seems everybody knows._ "I just want to get the straight story, whatever it is."

She laughed, a little cynically. "You'd be the first."

"Will you tell me? For old times sake?"

"On the level?"

He nodded. "On the level."

She thought about it. "What do you know?"

"I know what's in the files. And I know what I see." He took a drink. "They don't match."

"No kidding." She held up a hand. "I don't know what's in the files, but those agents of yours come in with their minds made up. She's good people, Mr. West. So was her ma. None better."

"Call me Jim. How did you meet her?"

"Well, I took over this place about a month after Micho closed it. The old man was still alive then – that was Pat Grady, Elizabeth's mother's brother. Grady's was a house, too. The old man started up right after the War." She looked at him defiantly. "Believe what you want, but Elizabeth and Maggie never worked upstairs. Elizabeth was a good woman, and the old man wouldn't have stood for it."

"Why was she there?"

"Well, why do you think? No place else to go. She lost her ma before the War, her brothers died in it. Then her pa died in an accident. She knew her uncle had a business, so she wrote to say she was coming out and didn't wait." She shook her head. "It must have been a shock for both of them, the day she showed up."

"Yeah, I'll bet."

"They worked it out. Elizabeth took over the books, the housekeeping and the doctoring." She smiled. "It was good for the old man, anyway. I didn't know him, but by all accounts, he was a lousy businessman and his own best customer. Quite a character, though."

"But that's long before I met Maggie. By the time I got here, the old man…Well, he went simple before the end. He'd fly into rages if he didn't get his way. And a couple of the girls really knew how to play him. They and their 'friends' were running the place, robbing it blind, and the old man wouldn't let Maggie and her ma do anything about it. She shrugged. "He died just as I was setting up shop. Natural causes, though some say otherwise. Both the doctor and the coroner told me so. He just didn't wake up one morning."

"That's interesting. You know the death certificate disappeared."

"A lot of stuff disappears around here." Torrey nodded knowingly. "Anyway, the day after the wake, Maggie walks in here bold as brass. Said they were getting out of that part of the business and she'd be telling her girls to come talk to me." She shook her head. "Her girls. She might 'a been twelve, thirteen…Gave me two lists. I'd do well with the girls on one list, and she hoped I'd treat 'em right. The others'd be more trouble than they were worth." Torrey chuckled. "Then she welcomed me to the neighborhood and went back home. I don't think I'd ever been welcomed to a neighborhood before."

"How'd they get rid of the girls and their 'friends'?", West asked.

"Well, they didn't leave 'cause a woman and a kid asked them nicely, that's for sure. I know the sheriff was involved, but Maggie got the drop on them with the old man's sawed-off. I saw her walk 'em out. The sheriff put them on the train out of town."

West took a drink and considered. "Was Elizabeth as tough as her daughter?"

She shook her head. "Nuh-uh. Elizabeth was a nice lady. She was strong in her way; scary smart, level head in a crisis. You wanted her around. But she wasn't _from_ here." Torrey didn't mean the town, exactly. "Maggie is. She's a lot like her ma, but there's a lot of the old man in there, too."

"The man of the house."

"Yeah, they needed one. They were strapped to the eyes by the time the old man died, and the bank called in the loans. Not a good time to get out of the business, but…" She shrugged.

"How'd they manage?"

"Maggie got another loan in Chinatown and paid off the bank. She's got friends down there."

West had already walked through Chinatown, which consisted of little more than one long block on each side of an unlit alley. "She learned how to fight down there. The old man sent her. I'm not sure why."

Torrey laughed. "I hear when she was a kid, she was a pistol! She's not exactly controllable now." She sobered. "Rough town, girl child. A lot rougher'n now. Elizabeth stayed in, unless there was doctoring to be done. But good luck keeping Maggie in anywhere. It was a smart decision, no matter what anybody says."

"And people say things." _I've read some of them._ "You ever see her fight?"

"People say plenty. Yeah, I've seen her." Alonzo stirred, behind the bar. "Few years back, a guy got jealous of one of the girls, just about beat her to death." Torrey suddenly remembered she had a drink. "It happens. Maggie came over to fix her up. He came back with a couple of his friends to keep Alonzo busy, and went up to finish the job. He never laid another hand on her."

"Maggie or the girl?"

"Oh, he grazed Maggie a couple times. But she wiped up the place with him. I had to buy a new piano." Torrey didn't sound like she minded much.

West laughed incredulously. "Was he any good?"

"Twice her size. Drunk. He wasn't holding back any."

West let it go and returned to the previous subject. "Funny they'd let a girl, especially a girl that age, take out a loan, even in Chinatown."

"I told you, she's got friends. I'm one." _Torrey isn't a woman to say that lightly_. "We don't get into each other's business, but she told me the rates down there are better than up the hill. It's the translator surcharge that'll kill you."

"Don't tell me, let me guess." West refilled Torrey's glass and his own. "Maggie didn't need a translator."

"You got it. _And_ she paid it back in full. Early."

"Does she have any men friends?" Torrey raised her eyebrows at him; West shrugged. "It's a reasonable question."

"Sure it is." She narrowed her eyes at him for so long that he thought she wasn't going to answer. Then she sighed. "You'll hear rumors, anyway. There was a new doctor about her age. They were engaged or close to it." She was defensive. "She's a grown woman, Jim. Wouldn't it be sad if there hadn't been anybody? They loved each other."

"I guess it would be. What happened to him?"

"Just disappeared." She sounded troubled. "There was talk. Maggie kept going; she does that. Never makes a fuss. But she was all busted up inside. There hasn't been anybody since." Torrey reached out for West's hand. "Let her alone, Jim. Call your men off. She's no harm to anybody, I swear it."

He took her hand lightly in return. "I don't think I can do that." He held tighter as she tried to pull away. "I think she's in danger, Torrey."

She stopped struggling. "From who? Why?" _Worried - but_ _not really surprised._

"I don't know." He released her hand. "Does she have any enemies?"

"That kind of enemy?" Torrey considered. "She's irritated a lot of people, especially up the hill. The bank, the town council. Some of the doctors we've had."

"Why the doctors? And how many have you had?"

Torrey laughed cynically. "Plenty. We can't keep a doctor, there's not enough money here. Some of 'em have been real good, like Maggie's friend. Some are more like the one we've got now." She laughed again, not nicely. "Try telling him there's a patient down here. He'll tell you to call the vet. That's all we're worth."

"So Maggie picks up the slack. What's the difference?"

"Danged if I know. But he still wants to charge her with practicing without a license. Sheriff told him to go ahead, as long as he was ready to start coming down here himself. That shut him up."

Alonso came over, ostensibly to wipe the next table. "It's not like we miss him. He's one of your best customers."

"Yeah. Just get the money up front."

"What about Sanderson and his kid?" Alonzo suggested.

"I don't know." she repeated, obviously troubled. _She thought of it, too. Better take a look_.

"Who's Sanderson?"

"General Sanderson. Local rich guy. He's a powerful man, got a lot of influence. Business dealings all over the state."

"He's a wrong 'un." Alonzo put in his two cents. Her look sent him back to the bar. _I'll try to talk to him later. Alone._

"General Sanderson? Never heard of him. Which side?"

"Who knows? Maybe neither. No particular accent, if that's worth anything" Torrey smiled. "Maggie just calls him 'Old Weird General'. Not to his face, of course"

"What'd Maggie do to upset him?" West tried to sound casual, but Torrey wasn't fooled.

"Elizabeth did it. He'd been sniffing around for years. The old man couldn't abide him, but the minute Grady died, the General proposed. She turned him down flat." Unease and fear colored her voice. "You don't turn him down."

West pushed his chair back. "Where do I find him?"

"He's got a big place a little ways northeast of here. If he's in town, he could be anywhere. You could try the gentlemen's club."

"It's good to see you, Torrey." Jim meant it.

"Good to see you too, Jim." She rose with him. "Please…be careful. We're not as young as we used to be."


	3. Chapter 3 - Doctor

Riding back into town after dark, West reflected on luck; specifically, the running out of it. The day had been productive right up to the moment when he left The Queen's Arms. Everything since had been a waste of time. The 'gentlemen's club' was shabby, genteel and sparsely occupied. No one had seen Sanderson for days, and no one particularly wanted to talk about him. They had no problem discussing Maggie - no problem, no insights and no useful information. He got directions to Sanderson's spread and rode up to check it out. It had a large house and several outbuildings, next to an abandoned mining operation. The few workers he saw were hard men, but gave him no trouble; just told him that the boss was in Sacramento on business, no idea when he'd be back. West saw nothing to disprove it.

The weather had changed again. The unseasonable snow was going fast, melted by an unpleasant near-freezing drizzle. The deep sticky mud needed careful riding, and if anything, the chill was even worse because of the rain. At the livery, West rubbed down the tired horse himself, paying special attention to its legs. They were likely sore, but they seemed sound. "No trips tomorrow, boy." he promised with a pat. "I'll see if I can scare up an apple or two. You deserve it." The horse swung its head against him and kept eating.

Walking back down to Grady's, he almost missed seeing the small figure. She was in pants and coat again, hunched and hurrying through the rain. He ducked into a shadow until she was well past, and trailed her to an unlit alley. Chinatown.

He ducked again to avoid the sudden shaft of light that told him which door she entered. He waited to see if his eyes would adjust to the darkness, but finally gave up and shuffled forward. A little more light came out of a cracked shutter and he pried off a piece of broken wood to give himself a limited view of the room.

She was talking to a Chinese man, near her own age. Thomas stood nearby, as did several young Chinese boys. Mock fights erupted whenever the adults seemed inattentive, replaced by respectful listening if Maggie or the man gave them a look. Both adults were well aware of this; the man tried several times, not too hard, to catch them out and once Maggie winked at him. _Class is over._

West wasn't prepared for what happened next. The boys, except for Thomas, were called into the back of the house. _The man's sons. Dinnertime._ Thomas went to get his coat from somewhere out of sight. Suddenly the man lashed out at Maggie. She blocked and kicked, trying to land one of her own. He blocked in turn, and the battle was on.

West nearly burst into the room, but something held him back. Then he saw it. The man executed a neat maneuver, knocking Maggie off balance, and grabbed a handful of coat so that she fell against him instead of the floor. _She's laughing_. She thumped him, pushed off and delivered a flurry of kicks and strikes that raised dust, but did no injury. He backed away and bowed slightly, then came on again. They went out of sight and Thomas came racing hell-bent for the other side of the room to get out of the way, like a scared cat. Finally, Maggie came barely back into view. She crouched as the man sailed over her; then straightened to knock his legs out from under him. She got a handful of jacket in turn, but his landing was undignified at best. She hit the floor hard in an only slightly more controlled fashion and rolled up into a seated position, shaking with laughter. The man turned over onto his back and just lay there, laughing as well. Finally, she recovered enough to stand and give him a hand up. He thumped her shoulder with his free hand, before they separated and bowed for a final time. A few more teasing words; then Maggie collected Thomas and they headed for the door.

West backed away, wanting to remain unseen. After a step or two, he became aware he was not alone in the darkness. He twisted, fumbling in the dark. Before he could find anything, the door opened.

The light revealed an old man in a strange mixture of traditional and western clothing, staring at him. It revealed West, as well. Maggie stopped dead in her tracks, pushing Thomas back into the room behind her. _She's afraid. Really afraid._

"Jian!" Her friend appeared in the doorway, quietly moving Thomas even further out of harm's way. Maggie addressed him in rapid-fire Cantonese. He spoke to the old man and a three-way discussion ensued. West understood none of it, but it was clear enough when the old man pointed out the new hole in the shutter.

"I'm sorry." They all turned to look at him. "I saw Miss …Grady in the street alone, and I was worried. I didn't know she was among friends."

"Now you know." Jian was angry, but controlled. _American born. No accent._ The old man spoke briefly. Jian responded, and he melted away into the darkness.

Maggie spoke with Jian in Cantonese for a minute longer. Then, tight-lipped, she turned to West. "If you're quite through here, I have to get Thomas back to his dinner. His mother will worry."

"May I escort you?"

"Can I stop you?" They walked out of the alley into the dimly lit street. "What are you going to do?"

"About what?"

"About anything." She wheeled to face him dead-on. "You want to mess with me, you mess with _me_. My friends are off limits."

_She's afraid for her friends_._ Why?_ Then he remembered the gentlemen's club. He had learned nothing new about Maggie, but a lot about the men's view of her and her associates. _That's why she stopped training_. The owl-eyed boy beside her obviously didn't understand. _I can't speak freely. Neither can she._ He exhaled and tried to find the right words. "I haven't seen anything tonight that the city fathers need to know about. You have my word."

"Is it good?"

"As good as yours."

"Then it's good." They walked on. Maggie put her arm around Thomas' shoulder and pulled him against her reassuringly for a moment. He relaxed and began to chatter.

"Miz Grady?"

"Yes, Thomas?"

"What does 'pigu' mean?"

"What?" Now Maggie was owl-eyed.

"You told Si-fu something about giving his pigu…I couldn't get it all."

"I wouldn't have said it if I'd known you were going to get that much." She looked down at him with exasperation.

He persisted. "But what does it mean?"

A grin started to spread across West's face. She glared at him. "Oh…kay. It's not a word for polite company. It's going to be a long time before you'll know when you can use it, so don't! It means your…gluteus maximus."

"Hunh?"

"You sit on it." West provided helpfully, earning another glare.

"Oh. Oh!" Thomas looked shocked and delighted at the same time.

She sighed. "It's an expression. I was kidding him about his last move. I said it was a 'give your…pigu…to God' maneuver."

"What does that mean?" West asked.

"It's a move that has to work. If it doesn't, God help you; nothing else will. You're just out there. Completely vulnerable."

"Why would you do that?" Thomas wondered.

"For fun." She stopped the boy with her hand. "You understand, that wasn't fighting. That was play. That was two very old friends pretending they were eight years old again." She looked at West. "And that's all it was." The next statement was for Thomas. "Try that in a real fight, and you could end up very dead."

"Okay." Thomas looked and sounded very small. It didn't last. "But I can do it for fun?"

She cocked an eyebrow down at him. "How about you learn how to fight first? Seems to me, you already know how to play pretty good."

"Yes, ma'am." They resumed trudging through the drizzle. "What's for supper?"

"Eye of newt." She stepped over a small mound in the mud. "Toe of frog on the side. And for pudding…."

"Ewwww." Thomas staggered sideways, clutching his throat.

Maggie laughed at him. "Okay, how about pot roast with a side of schoolwork?"

"What's for dessert?"

"Canned peach cobbler." _Sounds good. _ West realized the hotel restaurant would be closed by the time he got back. _Oh well. Not the first time I've had to drink on an empty stomach. Just take it easy._

Grady's came into view and Maggie clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Go on with you. Get into dry clothes and bring the wet ones down to the kitchen." Thomas squelched off at a trot.

"You're good with kids." Maggie shrugged and said nothing. With Thomas gone, she was closed off and wary again. "Where's Thomas' father?"

"Probably working on the house. They had a chimney fire before Christmas. Had to move into town."

"Merry Christmas."

"Yeah. Bart got a job, works til dark. Then he goes out to the place for a few hours. Works on it all day Sunday, too. Thomas helps."

"Even in the rain?"

"He got the roof on last week. They'll be back, ready to plant by spring. I think they'd be gone already, except this is better for Mira. She's not really in any condition for camping."

"You're going to miss them, aren't you?" She didn't respond. _Not my business, I guess_. "Do you think Thomas will keep training? Why _is_ he training?"

An ironic laugh. "It's not easy being a kid who lives at Grady's. He started getting teased at school right away. Then a couple of the bigger boys decided he was a good target for roughing up." She smiled. "Jian's a good teacher, just like his grandfather. Thomas is learning how to handle bullies without becoming one. He's all right."

"I can tell."

She pushed wet hair out of her face. "If he wants to keep training, and it's okay with his folks, we'll find a way to make it work. Otherwise…he says his dad's a good boxer. If Bart ever gets a minute's spare time again."

"Sounds like quite a man."

"Yep. And Mira's quite a woman." Her eyes gleamed in the light. "We've got a lot of good people down here. The way things are, it's 'all hands on deck' all the time. Nobody sits back and waits to be taken care of, but we help each other."

"There are good people everywhere."

"Good and bad." _She has a wicked chuckle_. "I can handle the bad ones down here. They're broke. It's when they get some money that all bets are off."

West laughed, too. _Good lead-in to ask about Sanderson_. Before he got the chance, they heard a commotion. A small mob rounded a corner, carrying a broad plank, and moving as fast as they could in the muck. As they neared, West could see a still body lying on the board.

Maggie spat out a pungent word. West had the distinct feeling that he'd ceased to exist, as she ran full-out for Grady's. _We've got to do something about her vocabulary. _She barely beat them to the door, West close on her heels. Everyone was shouting at once, but he made out the Spanish for 'mud', 'collapse' and 'dig'.

"Calla!" They quieted enough for her to direct them through the busy saloon into the back, to place the board and man on a bed in a room just off the kitchen. _Her room_.

"Mira, I need hot water, Thomas, go get every spare blanket you can find; Mira, bring one in here right away and put the rest in the warming oven." One man stood in front of the group as a spokesman. "Qué pasó?" She got the gist of it quickly and put a hand up to stop the details. "Familia?"

"Esposa" A_ wife_.

"Ir tras ella." _Go get her_.

The man left, taking the others with him. Mira brought a basin and a blanket and Maggie put them to one side. "Can you see to dinner?" Mira nodded and left. Maggie felt the man's pulse at his wrist and jaw, scowling, then moved a black bag from the bureau to a nearby chair. She opened it, took out a pair of shears and efficiently began cutting the man's clothes away.

"What are you doing?" It came out sharper than West intended.

"Grow up or get out." She continued until the man was completely exposed and washed mud away until everything was clearly visible. A thin piece of splintered wood projected ominously from his neck. One leg was badly broken. She pressed deeply on his bruised abdomen and tapped at it, listening with a stethoscope until she was satisfied; then moved up to his chest. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"No."

"Then stop acting like a tourist and get in here. Hand me that lamp." She studied both eyes, moving the light close to each, then away, several times. Handing it back to West, she cleaned and inspected the man's bloody head as best she could, careful not to move it.

Finally she stood and covered the man with the blanket from the chest down. "Thomas!" The boy appeared at the door instantly. "Another basin and a bottle of whisky, please. Jonah knows which." She took the dirty water out of the room, coming back with clean water and a warmed blanket, which she substituted for the cool one. Thomas returned and she emptied a cloth packet of surgical instruments into the new basin, dumping the whisky over them. Thomas stayed by the door, but didn't leave.

She studied West. "I have to take care of his neck first. That wood's at a bad angle and if it's long enough, it's got to be right up against the jugular and the carotid. If he wakes up and starts thrashing, he could lacerate them both."

_And then it's all over._ "What do you need me to do?"

"Get up there and make sure he holds still."

He obeyed, pushing the board to make room. Maggie washed her hands and sat on the side of the bed, placing the lamp and the whisky basin on the nightstand within easy reach. She fished out a dripping scalpel and made the first cut.

"Do you know what you're doing?" West was suddenly reminded of battlefields, with smoke and screaming men. It wasn't a pleasant memory. _And no battlefield surgeon ever looked like this_.

"Yes." She didn't look up, but stayed focused on her task. "Of course, that's no guarantee I'm not going to kill him anyway." Another incision along the top of the splinter. "I have to see how far this goes. If I just yank it, I could abrade a vessel wall."

"He's not bleeding much now."

"He's shocky. Hypothermic. No blood pressure." She continued to separate tissue from wood until a thin blood vessel came into view. West felt slightly ill. The splinter rested on it, and the far end was still not visible. She reached under the splinter and lifted it slightly. No blood appeared on the vein. She gently let it down again. "Thomas."

"Yes, Miz Grady?"

"I need some butter knives. Clean." The boy disappeared around the door jamb and returned almost instantly. "In the basin, please."

"What are you going to do?" West asked.

"I think I can pull it, but I want a space between the wood and the vein. I've got enough room now; I can lift the splinter and push the vein back a bit."

"That's the jugular?" It was thinner and darker than he expected.

"Yeah. It looks different when it's not constricted." She glanced up. "Blood pressure, hypothermic, likely dehydrated. Don't complain, it might be the best thing he's got going for him right now."

"Where's the carotid?"

"Medial." Maggie rinsed her hands again. "Other side, away from the wood. It's in no danger." It had been long enough; she pulled a blunt silver knife from the basin.

Just at that moment, the patient groaned and stirred, trying to roll his head. He became increasingly conscious and panicked when he couldn't. West pinned the man's shoulders with his knees and used his hands to keep the head clamped motionless, but the man began to buck, screaming in pain and striking out. Maggie threw herself on him to control his arms. _He's going to kill himself_. Suddenly, Maggie raised her own arm and brought her fist down sharply on the broken leg. The patient stiffened with an agonized cry and went limp again.

She pushed herself off the injured man. West thought for a second that she would be sick, or that he would. Her eyes were wet and her jaw tight, but she just sat on the side of the bed and retrieved a new knife from the basin. Once again, she lifted the splinter slightly, inserting the smooth metal underneath it and pushed the vein gently away. A steady pull brought the jagged wood out. She inspected the end of it, then looked back into the wound.

"Thomas, bring the lamp close." She peered in, using the dull knife to keep it open. "The tip broke off. I can see it." She fished a forceps out of the basin and probed deeply, coming out with a half inch piece. "Got it." She delicately lifted and slid out the knife, never taking her eyes off the blood vessel.

When no blood appeared after a full minute, West felt as lightheaded as if they had just defused a bomb. Maggie quickly patted the flesh back together over the vein and sewed the skin with heavy black thread. She placed a flimsy pad over the sutures. "Can you lift his head, please?" She wrapped a bandage around his neck to hold the pad with a light pressure.

"Not too tight." West put in.

"Yeah, throttling him would be counterproductive." She checked pulse and eyes, and listened to the heart again. "He's still out, but he's warmer. Better set that leg while he can't feel it. I can stitch up the head while he's awake. Thomas, will you ask Proinsias to come in?"

Proinsias was the whistle player. He traded places with West to hold the upper body. West pulled the leg and Maggie manipulated the bone back into place. It took several efforts before she was satisfied with its position, but finally she wrapped and splinted it. "That'll do for now." Two more blankets came out of the kitchen; Thomas handed the cold ones off to his mother.

"Dónde está?" A woman's voice in the kitchen. Thomas opened the door farther and she entered, followed by the spokesman. She was stocky and middle-aged. _Calm, until you look closely. She's been more used to trouble than she should be._

West stepped back to allow her to reach the bed. Maggie cleared the chair. She succinctly explained the injuries and what they had done so far. The man's eyelids were beginning to flutter and the woman bent over him, speaking softly. Maggie reminded her that he needed to remain calm and still, then led West to the door. Proinsias followed.

"Thanks. Go tell Jonah I said to give each of you one from the second-to-top shelf." The beatific smile reappeared on Proinsias' face. _What do you have to do to get one from the top shelf?_, West wondered.

In the saloon, he passed Jonah the message. The barman brought down a bottle and poured two generous glasses. Proinsias raised his to Jonah, to West and to the heavens, then disappeared with it back into the kitchen, where a half-full plate was still on the otherwise empty table. West inspected his glass, inhaling the aroma, and took in a generous sample. It was smooth as ice, followed quickly by warmth which grew to liquid fire and faded slowly.

"Irish." Jonah wiped and re-shelved the bottle. "Ten or twenty years old, somethin' like that. Single malt."

"The lady knows her whiskey." West wanted to finish it and order more, but his empty stomach reminded him that he'd better make this one last.

It was over an hour later before Maggie finally reappeared. She had crossed the doorway many times, carrying basins, changing blankets and fetching hot tea. Once, her burden included a large wad of cloth stuffed under one arm and he heard the cellar door; she returned in a dry skirt and shirtwaist, both somewhat wrinkled. The spokesman had departed long since. The priest arrived a half hour later with a bundle of men's clothes. He was obviously very at home in Grady's and stopped at several tables for leisurely debates before disappearing into the back bedroom.

She leaned on the bar, facing the crowded room. A few men with instrument cases were starting to stake out a corner near the piano. Several drinkers called out greetings, and she acknowledged them with a smile and wave. "Jonah, do you need a break?"

"Nah, get your dinner." the barman growled.

_She looks all in_. West felt just as tired. His stomach turned over at the thought of food. An amber beer sat on the bar in front of him, but he could hardly touch it. _A shame, really_. His rancid lunch was gone completely and still present, at the same time.

Her eyes were on him, seeing too much. She walked to the kitchen door, then came back. "I know I'm going to regret this. Have you eaten?"

"No."

"And you're not leaving. Are you?"

It wasn't really a question, but he answered anyway. "No."

"Jaysus." Those eyes flashed…exasperation? Temper? "Okay." She held up a finger. "It's pot luck. No games. Just two people eating supper. You want to investigate something, go find your own meal."

West tried not to smile. "I'll put my trowel away." He picked up his beer and followed her into the kitchen.

Thomas bent over a schoolbook at one end of the long table. Mira supervised, while knitting an amorphous woolen – something - which had formed itself into a large heap in her lap. _That's not all wool. Some of it's her_., he realized. His hat and coat were still in Maggie's bedroom, but he bent his head and brought up his hand to signal a hat tip.

She gave Maggie an incredulous look. Maggie spread her hands slightly with an sheepish grimace. "Mira, this is…" She stopped. "What do you want to be called?"

"Jim." It was less that she didn't believe him, than that she didn't care. "Jim will do fine. It happens to be my name."

She ignored the lack of a surname. "Okay. Sit yourself down. I'll see what I can dig up." The range was still warm; in short order, she divided a brace of hot beef sandwiches and reheated potatoes. Pickles and slaw came out of mason jars from the cellar steps. West addressed himself to his plate gratefully. Maggie sat opposite him and dug into her own food.

They ate in silence with few interruptions. The priest came out of the bedroom, exchanged a few friendly words and left. Bart arrived by the back door. A silent tow-headed man, he only nodded, hung his sodden coat on a hook by the range and went directly upstairs. Mira collected her knitting, her son and a plate from the warming oven, and followed, Thomas filching a slice of buttered bread along the way. Proinsias, whistle in hand, came downstairs and rounded the corner into the saloon. The tuning of instruments and random fragments of melody were beginning to filter in.

Maggie stood to scoop cobbler into soup plates, motioning West to remain seated. A lift of her eyebrows asked if he was interested. "Please." He accepted the plate and the pitcher of cream that went with it. "Where did you learn to be a doctor?"

"From Ma. She learned from her father." She poured cream over her plate. "I'd like to make a better job of it, but that son of a…doctor up the hill won't sell me any supplies, especially anesthetic. The vet's some help, but he doesn't have everything I need. Humans aren't horses."

"I heard your grandfather was a field surgeon. Which theater?"

"They were east. So was the old man."

"They?" _This is new_. "Your mother was a nurse?"

"Not exactly. Not official. They encouraged surgeons to bring their staff and that was always Ma. She couldn't sign up, but she came along. Shared his tent, worked right next to him. They didn't like it, but if she hadn't, he couldn't have gone."

"I hadn't heard that." _There must be someone around who remembers her_.

It was as if she could read his mind. "Once in a while, somebody'd stop by who recognized her. After she'd got over the embarrassment, they'd get to talking. The way they all do, kind of in code." West cocked his head at her. "You hear some of the boyos out front sometimes. They'll say 'Remember' and it'll just be a place or a name, and that's all you get, even if you ask. If you were there, you know; if you weren't, it isn't any of your business. The old man did it, too."

"Yeah. It is a code, isn't it?" _And those conversations are getting fewer and farther between_. "What happened to your grandfather?"

"I'm not sure that's any of your business." A pause. "Well, ancient history. They went home to New York and started getting established again. There was a factory fire. I guess those places are like tinderboxes." Maggie stared into the middle distance. "I don't know much. She'd only tell enough to explain the nightmares. She and Grandpa were getting people out. A lot of people were, they weren't the only ones. Grandpa told her to stay with somebody, and went back in himself. A few seconds later, the place was gone. So was he."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too. I'd have liked to meet him." She returned from the middle distance. "I'd better get back to work."

"When do you sleep?"

"Ah, tonight won't be bad. As long as the boiler holds up." She started to clear plates to the sink and West rose to help. "I've got to check on my patient. Tell Jonah I'll be out in a minute.

West enjoyed the rest of the evening. Grady's was chaotic, but oddly peaceful. Maggie was good at noticing any sign of trouble and defusing it with a joke or distraction. The musicians played jigs and reels, largely for themselves, but occasionally the call went up for someone in the crowd to provide a song or recitation. During a break, Brian swung into Old Dan Tucker. He could sing as well as he played and the room, including West, joined in. Maggie, lugging a full tray of glasses to the far corner, danced a few careful steps. On the way back with an empty tray, she broke into a full loose-limbed clog. She reached the bar before the last verse, sang along with the chorus and cheered the guitar player wildly when it ended. Even Jonah smiled.

"Fear rialtais!" West didn't hear who shouted it first, but others took up the call. "Fear rialtais!" They were looking at him.

"Lig do!" Maggie quieted them, except for a few catcalls. She turned to West. "They're asking for your party piece. You don't have to."

_That phrase again_. "What does 'fear rialtais' mean?"

"Government man. They're just slagging you. You don't have to."

"Party piece, huh? Let's see." _This was always Artie's line._ West ransacked his memory for any scrap that might help him. He got one and held up his hand for silence.

"There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold.

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee."

The poem came back to him, at least most of it, and West told it like a ghost story. Except for his voice, the room was dead still; when a chair creaked loudly, the closest man jumped nearly out of his skin and socked the occupant in the arm. Maggie leaned in like a kid at a campfire. _Artie was on to something. I could get to like this_.

"Since I left Plumtree down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm." He finished with a bow. Maggie clapped her hands together and fell back, laughing. The men roared with approval.

Maggie leaned in again. "Say, 'Seo dhuit'." she prompted.

He repeated the phrase, and the noise redoubled. He bowed again and turned back to the bar. "What did I just say?"

"There you are, there you go. There it is, that's it." She was still laughing. "It literally means 'Here to you'."

"Oh." The musicians were starting up and the hum of conversation resumed. West was being ignored again, but he knew he'd become a little less of an outsider. "They all know I'm a 'fear rialtais'?"

"Hey, you show up two hours before breakfast to stare at me, what else are you gonna be? I'm not that fascinating."

"You sure?"

She snorted. "You people have way too much time on your hands."

"You're used to it."

"Yep." She grinned and went on working.

West went on watching her. He felt a pang of sympathy for the men who had come here, fresh out of training, to investigate a girl who was not the least bit impressed by them. Despite the rumors, none had found anything of note, and frustration saturated the reports. Few questioned whether there was anything to find. West wasn't ruling anything out yet, but it was becoming a struggle.

'_She slightly resembles the man who may be her father, chiefly about the eyes. Mr. Gordon was a handsome man, but he would not have made a beautiful woman. Her face is remarkable for its malleability – from one moment to the next, she can look six years old or forty_.' It had been written about Maggie when she was approximately nineteen, by a young man who had gone on to success as a field agent. The statement was true now as it was then.

Finally, the crowd began to thin out. Maggie checked on her patient again and came back carrying West's coat and hat. He placed them on the bar beside him. She closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose. "You gotta to be kidding me. Unless you're leaving in the morning, get out of here. Come back at ten."

"Where are you going to sleep?"

"Bedroll in the kitchen. It won't be the first time."

"I believe it." She moved around the room, turning up lights and cleaning tables. Jonah traveled between the cellar and the bar, restocking and making a list of the empties. "What's on the top shelf?"

Jonah didn't even look up. "Same as the bottom shelf."

Maggie finished with the saloon room and headed back to the kitchen. West followed her as far as the doorway. She pulled out a large bowl and opened a bin of flour. "Don't you have to go talk to somebody or investigate something? I'll bet there are some really good rumors up at the hotel."

"I have to talk to you."

"No, you don't." She was fussing with water and yeast. "You really don't. Just do your job and go home. And I don't want to hear how the report's going to read, either."

"Why not?"

"Well, they can all be summarized in six words. Sometimes three." Smiling, she held up floury fingers and counted them off. "No. Better. Than. She Should. Be." She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and went back to work.

"What's the three words?"

"Two. Bit." She stopped when she saw his face. "The third word isn't 'Grifter'." She smiled brightly. "I think it was one time, though. That was a nice change."

"It isn't funny."

"Well, it is. And what are you getting so upset for, anyway?"

"What makes you think I'm upset?"

"Ri-ght." She drawled it out. "Well, thanks for caring. Or not. But I'm doing just fine."

"All except your reputation."

"My reputation?" A lump of dough hit a pile of flour harder than it should have, dusting them both. "Let me explain to you about reputations. It's the one thing I was born without and, never having had one, I don't miss it. The people that know me, know me. As far as the others go, I could enter a bleeding convent and it wouldn't change their opinion one iota. I can fret about that, or I can get something done; I've got a place to run."

"Maggie..." He stopped. _It's too soon. I don't know enough yet_.

"Maggie." It was Jonah. "I'm finished. Are you all right if I go?" He looked at West as he said it.

"Sure, see you tomorrow." Jonah looked uncertain, but left. Maggie went back to kneading. "Look, I'm going to set this bread rising and then I'm going to hit the hay. If you think you're going to be here for that, I've got a broom that says otherwise."

"You wouldn't dare."

"You wanna bet?"

He knew when he was beaten. "Okay, I'll see you in the morning. Do me a favor and lock up, will you? And tell your friends not to let in strangers. I could have been anybody." He crossed to bolt the back door.

"You could have…You still could be!" She shook her head bemusedly. "Good night."

"Good night."


	4. Chapter 4 - Sanderson

West woke to sun on his pillow. Over breakfast, he considered his options, but decided that he'd prefer to spend the day at Grady's. He'd follow other leads as they came to him.

He reached the saloon at quarter after nine. The fiddle player opened the door without a word; West was relieved to see it re-locked behind him. The kitchen was empty, but the table held an open ledger and a closed leather bag.

"No le hace." _Don't worry about it_. Maggie's voice in the bedroom. She backed into the kitchen, carrying a tray full of dishes, and nearly collided with West as she turned. She danced a step backwards and detoured around him. "You know what you need? A watch."

"I said we had to talk, remember?"

"I said we didn't. I'm off to the bank before we open." She unloaded the tray into the sink and removed her apron, wiping her hands on it and pitching it into a basket. The ledger went into a cupboard. She hitched her shoulders into a heavy jacket before West could assist her, took up the bag and headed for the back door.

Two easy strides caught him up to her. "I'll ride shotgun."

"I've been doing this by myself for a lot of years, buddy." It caught him by surprise, sparking an unexpected flash of anger. She raised an eyebrow, without offense. "Okay. Not buddy. You know, I really didn't think we were."

Her mild tone made it worse. "What if there's trouble?"

"Then the last thing I need is one more distraction."

"Will I be more of a distraction next to you, or ten yards behind you?" She closed her eyes and exhaled loudly. He shrugged. "Keep your friends close." _And your enemies closer._

She recognized it. "And of course I trust implicitly anybody who goes around quoting Machiavelli."

"I thought it was Sun Tzu."

"Machiavelli. I do read." She was definite. "You're not planning on moving here or anything, are you? I don't think I can take much more of this."

He smiled and held the door for her. She sketched a sarcastic curtsy and preceded him through it.

They walked without a word; West watching her as much as the busy street. She was relaxed, but alert to her surroundings, noticing the smallest movements in peripheral vision and casually keeping just close enough to buildings to protect her back if necessary. Cross streets and alleys took a little more distance. She knew to check reflections in shop windows. _Yeah, you've done this before._

"Hey, Maggie, who's the bodyguard?" The shout came from a skinny man with a weasel face, leaned against the barber's wall across the road.

"What's the matter, Roger? You weren't planning anything, were you?" Maggie called back easily and just as loudly. Her chin was high and her eyes sparked with the challenge, but she flicked them around to make sure no one else was involved.

"Nooo. Not me, lady, I wouldn't dream of it." He laughed mockingly, hands in the air, and watched them walk on.

"Would he plan anything?" West muttered under his breath.

"In a heartbeat, if he thought he could get away with it." She spoke the same way, without moving her lips from her slight smile.

"You're armed?"

"Ohh, you betcha." They crossed into the nicer part of town, but she didn't relax her vigilance. The only change was the quality of the stares. Two women, noisily shopping, became silent and glacially sailed across the street.

They reached the bank and Maggie transacted her business. Turning for home, she pointed out the sheriff's office near the tracks, and a block later, pointed out the sheriff. "You'll be wanting to talk to him." She stopped at a general store to order supplies. The streets were warmer on this side of town, and not from the sun.

Back home, she opened the saloon to a few early stragglers. They seemed to want the drink less than they simply wanted someplace to be. Maggie didn't push, but just tended bar with her usual mug of coffee; West requested and got one of his own.

"I keep hearing about a General Sanderson. Who's he?"

"Big money. Got here a little before Ma, married a local girl, widowed a few years later. Ma said he only had enough to buy the place at first, but he's got a lot richer since. He's on a bunch of boards. Word is, he's starting to invest in national politics – you know, politicians who can do him some good. He's invested in the state lege for quite a while. I don't know where he's from."

"What's he like?"

"Nine miles of bad road." She smiled. "We've had our disputes. He likes to control things. We've been less than cooperative."

"He offered to marry your mother and she turned him down."

She raised her eyebrows. "You've been busy. Or is that in the reports?"

"Nope." _And I'm not sure how we missed it_.

"Well, it's true. And he's never forgiven us. Of course, it was more complicated than that."

"What do you mean?"

"She nearly said yes." Maggie laid it out like a gauntlet. "He knew exactly what bait to use. He promised to send me to a girls' school out east, get me whatever tutors I needed so I could make it. She'd've agreed to just about anything to get me out of here. And of course, the old man had just died and the bank had called in the loans. We were up against it."

_And Sanderson is on the bank board_. "Why did she say no?"

She snorted, with little humor in it. "Because I stood there in that kitchen and said she could marry him if she wanted to, but I'd be back here running Grady's. He got this funny look in his eye and said if she couldn't control her brat, he would." Any remaining humor was gone. "That's all she needed to hear. He was heading for me, but when she started giving him hell, he turned for her. I got to a gun in time." Deliberately, she brought the humor back. "After that, it devolved to bad melodrama. I don't know if anybody actually said 'Never darken our door again', but they may as well have done. More coffee?"

"I'll get it." West took his time. "Would you have liked it? If Sanderson hadn't been involved?"

She cradled the full mug. "Well, I read anything that holds still long enough. But me, in a girls' school?" She considered. "Hard to say what or who would be still standing at the end of that." She grinned. "Can you imagine?"

"I can imagine you at a university. Or medical school."

"Honey tongue. But thanks for the compliment." Her tone dismissed the subject.

There was no point in pursuing it. "Anybody else give you trouble?"

"Nah, not for years. I mean, it's a saloon. We get rowdies. Once in a while, somebody tries to stick us up. Last summer, the temperance gang came visiting with a big revival. That was fun. Picked up a few new hymns." Deadpan, she hoisted her mug. "Sláinte."

"Sláinte." _Your health._ At least he knew that word. "You didn't take the pledge?"

She broke up, laughing until she had to wipe her eyes. "No. No, I didn't take the pledge. In fact, you'll notice a distinct lack of hatchet marks in the room. A few bullet holes. No hatchet marks."

West looked around. "Not many bullet holes."

"We rebuilt the front wall after the Battle of Grady's. You've heard of that, anyway."

"Yeah." The official file contained an actual copy of the sheriff's report, along with the usual rumors. "Some toughs tried to overrun the place. Nobody knows who, or why. You fought them off."

"Yeah, that's it."

"What happened?"

"It was maybe half a year, a little more, after the old man died. We'd started to get our feet under us, running a saloon and boarding house. There wasn't any real warning, but there'd been a lot of new men around. Fighters. We knew something was up, we just didn't know it was gonna be about us." She was off in the middle distance again. "There were a couple of 'em in the saloon when it started, and…the old man's sawed-off took care of them. After that, we barricaded the doors and windows. There might have been ten of 'em in the street, maybe a couple 'round back, really well armed. We weren't. Most of the customers hid in the cellar, but some of them stayed up to help." She smiled. "Proinsias, Máirtín. A couple of the girls from Vickie's made it in before we got it all closed up. It was quite an army."

"Sounds like it." _Women and old men against a team of hired guns._

"Well, we held them off for a while. It finally turned when Vickie and her crowd came across the street in a pincer action." Another grin. "Did I mention, she's a friend?"

_I guess so_. "You were wounded."

"Oh, yeah. It healed."

"They thought it wouldn't"

Maggie rolled her right shoulder in two exaggerated circles, then raised her arm and wiggled her fingers at him. "Works just fine." She was silent for a moment, then exhaled and shook her head. "That's an odd feeling. One minute, it's 'Well, I guess this is it'. Next minute, it's over and it's 'Wait, what, we're gonna live? Hunh?' Very strange." She shrugged it off. "Anyway, nobody recognized any of them, living or dead. The live ones all got away, so we never did find out who was behind it."

"You suspect Sanderson."

She shrugged again. "I don't know, but I wouldn't put it past him. It would have to be somebody who could organize something like that, not your average run of the mill, umm, panderer." In spite of himself, his lips tightened. "What?"

"You shouldn't know about things like that." She just kept looking, incredulous. "Anyway, I don't know if anybody's ever told you, but you've got pretty good instincts."

She made a nondescript sound. "I'm a bartender. Goes with the territory. You're a little outside my range, though."

"Why?"

"You ask about the oddest things."

He gave her the aching truth. "I want to know what it was like." _Seo dhuit_. _Here to you_.

He expected the strange look, head cocked and brow wrinkled, but not the response. "So you're asking about the highs and lows? That's not what it was like. Except now and then."

"So what was it like?"

She considered. "It was good. We laughed a lot. You couldn't be around Ma without laughing. And the old man was…a force of nature."

"You said he served in the east."

"He was a teamster with the Horse Artillery Brigade. The stories at his wake – I guess he was usually a hair's breadth away from courts martial. The man never did see a horse he didn't think would look better under him."

"Why didn't they?"

"Because what he couldn't do with a horse or team, couldn't be done. Good horse doctor, too."

Jonah arrived and Maggie relinquished charge of the bar. West trailed her into the kitchen. The bedroom door was ajar; she looked quietly in, nodded and returned to work on lunch.

West seated himself. "You were telling me about the old man."

"He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again." Maggie quoted. "He had his faults." She laughed softly. "You'd want Ma behind you in case of trouble. Not the old man. Ninety percent of the time, he'd get a fit of the 'practicals' and fssht!" She gestured with her thumb. "Off he'd go. Probably on your horse."

"What about the other ten percent?"

"Sometimes he just couldn't keep from doing the right thing. I used to tease him about it. He hated it." A rueful laugh. "You still didn't want him behind you. He had a berserker streak. Best just step well aside, stand back, and watch." She quieted. "He loved us like we were his own. He was so proud of this place. And, rascal or no, he ran it honest. I know, it was a house. But he always treated people right."

"I believe you." The truth again.

She assessed him, considering something. She came to a decision and went into her room, coming back with a framed photograph. "I'm going to be very upset if this disappears."

West recognized the bar. On it sat a tiny girl in a pinafore, hair arranged in rag curls, no older than Thomas. On the floor in front of her sat a huge three-legged dog. Two adults flanked her. One was a small stocky man, chin truculently high, one hand thrust proudly inside a familiar tweed coat. He stared straight ahead at the camera.

The dog also stared straight ahead, obviously set on a hair trigger. West feared for the photographer. The child looked down, chiding it. The woman on her other side….

She was slightly taller than the man, thin and elfin. No great beauty, but joy, intelligence and mischief shone from her, making her the accidental focus of the picture. It was hard to look away. Her face turned towards the child, looking as if she was about to burst into laughter at any moment. _God, she really loves that girl._ And then, _Artie never had a chance_.

"It's not the picture the old man wanted. Not dignified enough. But I love it." Maggie said quietly. "_That_ was Grady's."

"Did he take a second picture?"

"Have you looked at the dog?" Maggie laughed. "No. No, this is it."

"Why did you get out of the business?"

"I s'pose we knew too much about it. Those women helped raise me; some of 'em are still my friends. It doesn't matter how well the old man treated them. No woman ever went into that life without some kind of…desperation behind it. I didn't want to be the person who made a living off that." Her chin had some of the old man's truculence. "Not morality, not the Church, nor the city fathers. Those were Ma's reasons. I just didn't want to. And, as it turns out, we didn't have to." She spoke softly, but it was as defiant as a rebel yell.

"You don't like morality?" West was just as quiet.

"Not when it's used as a bludgeon. Seems to be its main purpose, for some folk." She smiled grimly. "Like an anvil on a rope."

West relaxed, just a little. "That's not morality."

"That's what they call it." Lunch was starting to come together. "What do you call it?"

"Unh, unh." He shook his head. "Mixed company."

She was half turned away at the range, but he still caught the eye roll and was suddenly a little glad he hadn't come sooner. This girl – woman – as an adolescent must have been maddening_. And if you reached for her pressure point, you might pull back a bloody stump._

He decided to change the subject. "Why do you call yourself Maggie Grady?"

"My right name goes on all the paperwork. But Grady's above the door, so a lot of people just assume. And there's the contingent who insist my legal name is Lynch." _Yeah, us_. "It's not worth the arguing. Maggie Grady'll do."

"Why Maggie?"

"You're joking, right?" She stopped stirring and turned round.

"It's not that bad."

She made a rude noise. "It would have been bad enough if Ma had just spelled it like the Greek goddess. But she thought the flower name was more feminine. Margaret's my middle name. Therefore, Maggie."

"Artemisia Margaret Gordon." West tried not to smile. "That's a lot of name for a little girl."

She turned to the range again. "That's what the priest thought. When it came time for a confirmation name, the old man wanted 'Patricia', after himself. Father Alfred put his foot down. He wouldn't allow anything more than one syllable. I ended up getting named after some aunt."

_Her mother didn't have any sisters_. A terrible thought occurred to him and he gave voice to it. "Maude?"

"Yeah, I guess there's a Saint Maude someplace."

Unexpectedly, all the tension of the last few days released itself in a whooping explosion of laughter. Maggie goggled as he fought for air, eyes running. Her expression didn't help, torn as it was between questioning his sanity and rising irritation.

Finally he got his breath back. "Sorry."

It wasn't enough, wasn't likely to be. "Would you care to explain yourself?"

"No. No, sorry, no." He looked at the photograph again. "You haven't changed a bit."

She brushed away the obvious distraction. "All the rest of that name and 'Maude' is what sets you off." She got back to work. "You know, kids in the schoolyard used to eat dirt for less. I haven't done it for years, but I could be persuaded."

"You could try." He held up a hand. "But please don't."

"Mmph. Well, at least I knew when I was in trouble. Particularly since the old man still threw 'Patricia' in there. Stubborn."

"So you come by it naturally_._"_ On both sides_. West steeled himself to broach the main subject. "Maggie…"

"Señora." The patient's wife was at the open bedroom door.

"Cómo está?" _How is he_?

"Está bien. Duerme." _Fine. Sleeping._

"Cómo está usted?" _How are you_?

"Estás, por favor. Bien."

Maggie smiled. "Me llamo Maggie. Siéntese."

"Me llamo Elena. Gracias." Elena sat at the table, and they continued talking over coffee. West learned that Maggie planned to watch the leg for infection til the next day; if there was none, she'd apply a cast in the morning and arrange to get the patient home. Meantime, Elena was welcome to make herself at home. There was a full lavatory upstairs, so she wouldn't need to use the outhouse that served the saloon customers. Any supplies not already in the kitchen, lined shelves along the cellar steps and filled a root cellar. West was impressed to find that, at this time of year, they were still well-stocked.

A few minutes later, Mira came downstairs, obviously feeling a little peaked. West, faced with a roomful of women discussing their own concerns in two languages, chose a strategic retreat. _Time to go find the sheriff_. Jonah smiled as he left.

Typically by now, Sheriff Adams wasn't surprised to see him; "I been wondering when you'd show up." West displayed his credentials and took the proffered seat and drink. "So whaddya think of Maggie Grady?"

"That's supposed to be my question." The younger man smiled and waited. "She yells in the street. Wears pants. Swears like a trooper. Apparently, she fights like one, too." West sipped his whiskey. "Not exactly polite company."

"'Lizbeth made sure she could hold her own at any tea party." Adams shook his head. "That end of town still ain't no tea party. There wouldn't be a Grady's if she didn't have some people convinced she's more trouble'n she's worth."

"Is she?"

"Depends. Minds her own business and she don't try to do my job. Once in a while, she lets me know somethin' needs a little extra attention. She's mostly right."

"She ever broken the law?"

"Every time she doctors somebody without a license. You gonna charge her?"

West shook his head. "Not me. Anything else?"

"Far's I know, she's never even cheated at cards."

"Poker?" _Why am I not surprised_? "Or three card monte?"

"Whatever ya got." Adams scratched an ear. "Look, mister, I don't know how much time you've spent in small towns in the winter. If you don't find somethin' to do, you go stir-crazy. She learns stuff."

"Cards."

"Just about anything. Languages; even a few words, from anybody passes through. There's some Basque boys come down sometimes. They could go to Red Bluff for supplies just as easy, but they like to stop at Maggie's for a chat. She's getting pretty good."

"Music?"

"You've been there. Stick around long enough, she'll learn somethin' off you." The sheriff leaned back. "Damn shame, a woman born with a mind like that. Don't fit in no place, ya know?"

"She fits in at Grady's." It wasn't the first response that occurred to West, but it was the first that he thought might be a good idea to voice. "You met Elizabeth?"

"Yeah, I was here before she died. I was a deputy, then. Real smart, too, but she was a real nice lady anyway. Too bad she never remarried."

"Why didn't she?"

"Well, I never met the husband, but seems nobody could compare. And most men that were after her just saw a saloon with somebody that was already doin' all the work. Maggie gets the same crowd."

"What about Sanderson?"

Adams sat up. "What about him?"

_That name always strikes a nerve_. "He didn't want the saloon, did he?"

"I doubt it. Why'n't you ask him?"

"I would, but he's out of town." Adams' look put the lie to that story. "Tell me about him."

The sheriff was silent for a minute, then got up and scanned the street. Returning, he called his deputy to the front and told him to go walk the area and look for trouble. He closed the door to the back and returned to his chair.

"Sanderson runs this town. I don't know that he's doin' anything illegal, but I guess you'd find a lot if you turned over enough rocks. Don't matter, you couldn't touch him if you found it. Man's got powerful friends." Adams downed his whiskey in a gulp. "If I had to guess about 'Lizbeth, I'd guess he went after her 'cause he didn't like to think there was anything he couldn't get."

"He was wrong." West took the liberty of refreshing his glass and filling Adams'. The sheriff shot him a sharp look, but let it pass. "What about the son?"

"Ben? He's a no-good drunk. Crazy temper. Funny thing is, him and Maggie were friends when they were kids. Even after the Battle of Grady's, he'd have a glass or two there before he'd move on."

"But not any more."

"Nope, not any more." West didn't ask what happened, but just waited. "It was the year the fever came through. You know about that." West nodded. "Well, Grady's was the hospital for that end of town. They wouldn't let nobody cross the tracks." He scratched the other ear. "Didn't do 'em no good, the fever crossed the tracks all on its own. Anyhow, 'Lizbeth, Maggie and the doc, they had their hands full. Ben came in, roaring drunk, wantin' to get served. Maggie told him they were shut down and he kept saying he had a right to be there. Over 'n over, he had a right to be there. She tried to get past him, but he laid hands on her." He shook his head. "She wouldn't have done it otherwise, but she don't take to that at all. And 'Lizbeth was startin' to take sick herself and God knows when any of 'em had slept last."

"What did she do?"

"Hauled off and smashed his nose in. Then she looked down at him, squallin' on the floor, and said '_Now_ you've a right to be here'. Stepped right over him and kept goin'. Doc had to fix him up. Didn't do too good a job, neither." Adams didn't sound sympathetic.

"So where does he drink now?"

"Max's, just outside town." West raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Cribs and popskull moonshine." Adams smiled thinly. "You'll go there sooner or later. Leave anything you don't want to lose back at the hotel. Keep your eye on your drink. And if I was you, I'd leave the girls alone, too. Maggie's good, but she can't cure everything."

_Point taken_. "Anything to find out there?"

"A lot of people who hate Maggie Grady's guts. Including Ben Sanderson."

West had seen his share of powerful men before, and towns run like medieval fiefdoms. _If Grady's is still standing, then either Sanderson's not that powerful, or he doesn't want it that bad. Not yet_. And there was still no explanation for West's presence. _Who got me out here? Who keeps the rumors going, and who sends them to Washington_?

"Well, somebody's causing trouble and I don't think it's Maggie Grady." West considered, exhaling softly. "If you were me, where would you look?"

"Trouble? All the way to Washington?" Adams waited for a response he didn't really expect to get. "Well, you're the expert." He looked down into the glass. "All's I can say is, you're doin' ok so far." He scraped his chair back and knocked open the door to the back. "Good luck."


	5. Chapter 5 - Files

The rest of the day was spent chasing shadows again. _Not a Sanderson in sight, _West thought sourly. Even the newspaper office had no photograph of one of Magalia's most prominent citizens. _Not so much as the back of his head at a Fourth of July ice cream social. That's no coincidence – that's a man with something to hide_. The editor had seen him coming and evidently remembered a prior commitment elsewhere, out the back door. The resentful clerk he left behind was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, but gave West full access and no argument.

He was tempted to wire Sacramento for information, but he wasn't ready to bring the Service down on himself yet. There would be questions. _That's all right – I've got a few questions of my own_.

Max's lived down to its reputation. It was a windowless unheated shack, backed by a scattering of tumbledown sheds. Even during the day, kerosene lamps provided what light existed inside the building and there was evidence to back up the claim that it frequently burned down and had to be rebuilt. The air inside was thick and seemed to dull the senses.

West sniffed his drink before tasting it. A drop on the tongue, hot and oily, confirmed what his nose told him. _Methanol_. The distillers had saved money by using some of the foreshots, the poisonous first drops from the still. _There's probably not enough in here to kill me…but I think I'll pass._ If Ben Sanderson did his drinking here, he had a tough stomach and an even tougher head.

According to the barman, Ben wasn't present. West warily surveyed as much of the room as he could see. More than one man had a broken nose, and no face reminded him of anyone. A surly girl slouched toward him and he waved her off. Muttering voices began to resemble a low growl. He nodded to the room and turned to go.

A large man moved to block his path. "What's your business, old man?"

"No business. I was just leaving." West tried to walk around, but the man moved with him.

"We heard there was a government man in town. We don't like your kind." The man's face wore an anticipatory smile. Other men, slinking closer, had the same smile.

They looked like a pack of hyenas. Casually, West reversed his steps until he leaned against the bar. He took up his drink and suddenly dashed it right into the man's eyes. His other fist buried itself in the man's midsection and sent him sprawling into the crowd. By the time they recovered, they were facing the barrel of West's gun. They let him leave and he walked back into town.

He was going to eat supper back at the hotel, but, passing The Queen's Arms, he remembered Alonzo. It was getting close to twilight and business would be picking up; West hoped Torrey would be too busy to interfere.

It didn't happen. "Jim!" Torrey rushed him, grabbed his elbow and pulled him behind the bar, into her office.

"What is it?" _Maggie_?

"I talked to Maggie." Torrey couldn't quite find the words. "I thought she knew…I'm sorry." She was stammering. "She called you Jim. But when I called you Jim West…I haven't seen her like that since…Jim, why?"

"She recognized my name." Torrey nodded. "I have to go."

She held his sleeve. "I don't think you'd better. She's awfully upset."

He detached himself as gently as he could. "It'll be all right, Torrey." _She had to find out sooner or later._ "I just have to talk to her."

Maggie was in no mood for talking. He didn't think she'd been crying, but her knuckles were reddened and there was a wet patch of unpainted plaster near the back door. She blocked the entrance to the kitchen. "You're not coming back here."

"We have to talk." West was aware of their audience; from the saloon, the kitchen, the bedroom. _There is never anywhere to talk in this place_.

"I have to work. You have to go home." Her eyes were hot and haunted. "Go home, Mr. West. There's nothing for you here."

"There's you." Her temper flared. "Maggie, I didn't know. I found out a week ago. I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter. You're too late. She's dead." There was no possible reply. "She needed you. She wrote to you, every year." Maggie wiped her hands over her face and shook her head to clear it. "It doesn't matter. It's over. Just…go home."

"I can't."

"What do you want?" She finally exploded. "What can you possibly want? You didn't know? Fine, you didn't know. Fine, you're sorry. Fine, you've explained. Now get outta here!"

"I haven't explained."

"I. Don't. Care." She fought for control and won. "Supper's going to be late because of you. I don't need any more of your company." She pitched her voice loud enough to carry through the barroom. "You can stay out here if you want to, same as anybody else, long as you mind your manners and pay your bills." Her attention came back to him. "But you should know, me and the priest have a strict contract. He doesn't serve beer and whiskey; I don't grant absolution. If you're looking for anything but a drink, you're in the wrong building."

Not knowing what else to do, West retreated to the bar and signaled for a whiskey. Jonah looked like he might refuse, but finally shoved a drink his way. West downed it and stood staring into the empty glass.

Proinsias came out of the kitchen and spoke softly to the bartender. Jonah poured a tall one and the whistle player carried it back into the kitchen. The saloon was dead silent.

"No, thanks anyway." Maggie's voice was exhausted. "Ironic, isn't it? The time you need a drink most is always the time you shouldn't have one. Tell Jonah to pour it back in the bottle. I got nothing to celebrate."

West paid his bill, turned on his heel and left.

Next morning, he stayed in his room. His breakfast sat ignored on the back of the lowboy dresser, and papers covered the bed, nightstand and table. No matter how he arranged them, they made no sense. _Where did they come from? Somebody wants me here – who? Why?_ _Why now? _

'_It would have to be somebody who could organize something like that_.' Maggie was talking about the Battle of Grady's, but it rang true. A secret file, deliberately kept from him, suddenly placed on his desk in Washington. An area which should have been secure, and yet, there were no witnesses. _Money and influence – and a violent man with secrets._

_How does Maggie fit in_? She seemed an unwitting player. _Is she just bait to get me here? Or is she a stand-in for Artie?_ Artie was well beyond reach of any vengeance, had been since...There'd been no time for him to even tell West his news. _'Hey, buddy, have I got something to tell you! Wait'll you hear...' _ But they'd had the assignment to finish first – '_Later, Artie._' - and then it was over.

Over. Except for the long trip back to Washington. _We'd both 'died' so many times. The times we knew it was faked, the times we thought it was real, the times we just didn't know._ This time, he'd known there was no doctor, no double. No magic, no time travel. This was the real thing. Still, a small part of his mind had waited for Artie to show up again, with just the perfect quip to make it all right. _Why don't I remember when I stopped waiting?_

A secret file, deliberately kept from him. The first postmarked letter from Elizabeth had arrived when Maggie would have been five years old, although it referenced previous letters which had either never been sent, or never arrived. It was followed, almost in the same post, by an anonymous letter which warned of a scheme to defraud the government of Artie's pension. The description of Elizabeth's character and activities was enough to warrant the first investigation, and drove the decision to shield him for his own protection. And hers.

Tucked inside was a second packet of letters from Elizabeth. These had no postmark and covered the missing years. No notation referenced them and it was plain that they weren't part of the official file. _Taunting me, showing me what he can do._

The letters continued until Elizabeth's death. In a disciplined copperplate hand, they asked for help; not for her, but for Artie's daughter. Many – after a while, most - were addressed to James West. The anonymous letters also continued. The rumors were vicious. Even after Elizabeth was gone, the poison pen had ensured that Maggie would go on being investigated, describing her in terms that would have made Loveless blush and plead flattery. The Service tried to trace them and identify the writer, but to no avail. The paper was ubiquitous and the postmarks covered the country.

Postmarks. West went back to Elizabeth's letters from the official file. _All of them from Dogtown. Except the first. _The first was from San Francisco_. Once Elizabeth reached Grady's, she never traveled again. _

Two o'clock. Lunch was over. West shoved the papers back into the file, shoved the file inside his coat and headed across the tracks.

Grady's back door was unlocked; he let himself in and waited. Maggie's bedroom was open and empty, the bed stripped. In a few minutes, she came downstairs, half buried under fresh linen and blankets.

She stopped when she saw him, then stalked to the bedroom, flinging the pile of cloth inside. It missed the bed, but she slammed the door anyway and stalked back. "What the hell do you want?"

The file landed on the table with a resounding smack. "Read that."

Proinsias and Jonah hit the kitchen nearly simultaneously, ready for a fight. Maggie raised her hand. "It's all right, go on back. Don't go far." They took her at her word, standing next to the bar within eye- and earshot. _So much for privacy_.

She faced him, not giving an inch. "Why should I?"

He gave her the only reason she would accept. "Because you need to know."

She spilled the papers out onto the table and froze. _Elizabeth's handwriting_. Slowly, she began going through the file, keeping it in order, reading everything – her mother's letters, the poison pen letters, the official notes and reports. Torrey hadn't lied; she made no fuss. Still, it was excruciating to watch. West didn't try to comfort her. _I can't_ _sugarcoat it; she'll spit in my eye_. At the end, he gave her the second packet of unmailed letters and she went through them. "That's all of it."

He didn't need to point out the envelopes. She tapped one with a finger. "She mailed these. I don't remember, but I _know_ she would have mailed them."

"Look at the others." It took her a few minutes to find it. He nodded. "San Francisco. She was never there, was she?"

"No. The old man was." She was thinking out loud. "He was the one who went to the post office. _He_ wouldn't have kept any back." She looked up. "Sometimes he forgot things. What if he forgot to mail a letter, then mailed it in San Francisco? That would explain it."

"It's the first to get through." West watched her mind work. "After that, this man", he tapped the nearest poison pen letter, "Poison Pen gave up stopping them and started writing his own."

"How would he know it got through? How does he know what mail the Secret Service gets?"

"Good question." She was…off somewhere, still sorting through the papers. _Penny for your thoughts_. "Do you recognize his handwriting?"

"No." Her mouth was wry. "But then, we haven't exactly corresponded." She shook her head with an inarticulate growl. "I know I'm jumping to conclusions, but really, what other conclusion is there to jump to?"

"What do we know?"

"You're asking me? You're the expert." She considered. "Well, Poison Pen can stop mail here. He knows when it arrives at your end, but he can't stop it there. How did you get these?" She tapped both packets.

"They just showed up on my desk."

"Well, that answers one question. A friend of yours wouldn't have had this one." The unmailed letters. "Okay, he can do that. And since he can't be doing it all singlehanded, he's got a good-sized payroll." She chewed her lip. "If this was just about us…about Grady's, there'd be no need to involve you at all." She looked up. "This is about you. Isn't it?"

"Yeah."

She leaned back in her chair. "He really takes the long view, doesn't he? So – your age, or thereabouts. And he's been here the whole time. That works."

"Unless it's more than one generation."

"Mmm. Well, if it's Ben Sanderson you're thinking of, he couldn't write this well if you held a gun to his head. 'Long as we're jumping to conclusions." She shuffled through Poison Pen's letters again. "It's got to be a man, anyway. Not the handwriting - a woman could get a man to write it out for her. It just sounds like a man. The…phrasing, the…" Her voice trailed off.

"An educated man." _Crude accusations, but a sophisticated campaign_.

"Yeah. That works, too." A long sigh. "So, he got you here...Now what? What's he gonna do? And why mess with Grady's? Why not just go after you? He doesn't have to do it here."

"Sins of the father." He shrugged and sat down. "It's a guess."

She regarded him sourly. "Gee, won't _that_ be fun?" Her index finger moved one of the nastier letters around the table. "I don't know where I'd go to find a sample of Sanderson's handwriting. The city offices would have his signature, but that's not a lot to go on." She brightened. 'Then again, we could just go up there and kick…do some kicking." West gave her a look. "Well, I'm _trying_ to mind your delicate sensibilities."

He sat up straighter. "I don't have delicate sensibilities. You should."

"Beg pardon?" Maggie's eyes widened. "Look, buster, if you've got any idea of trying to raise me at this late date, I've gotta tell you, I've been up for a long time now." She gathered up the file and pushed it towards him. "I appreciate you letting me know about this. Assuming it's true, you're off the hook. But if you want to head on out of here right now, it's all right with me."

"Assuming it's true?" _At least she doesn't trust as easily as I thought she did._

"Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?"

West changed tacks slightly. "You don't like me very much, do you?"

"I don't know you very much. I think your organization smells to heaven."

"Why do you let us in here?"

Maggie stared at him levelly. "It's the fastest way to get rid of you. Believe me, we've tried 'em all. Look, Mr. West, you don't owe me a thing. Nothing. But by the same token, I'm not your responsibility, and this is my turf."

"Okay, it's your turf." _That's the way you want it, that's the way you get it. _ "But this is a Secret Service investigation, and that means I'm in charge.

"I'll keep that in mind, should I ever enlist." The sarcasm was hardly subtle. "You should live so long, you should be so lucky."

"Do you know what a loose cannon is?"

She did. "Naval reference."

"Don't make me worry about you, or I'll have Sheriff Adams put you in protective custody. And he'll do it." _I hope._

"And what, exactly, is the difference between that and a bandbox?"

He leaned forward across the table. "Keep going and you'll find out."

Maggie's lean matched his. "I'm not likely to handle either well."

"Then don't force my hand. You're an adult. And I'm the expert. You said so, yourself."

Unexpectedly, she laughed and sat back. "Fair enough. I can handle that. If you can." She mocked him lightly, the lift of her chin making it plain that she thought he couldn't. However, it was as much of a concession as he was going to get.

She wasn't through. "As long as we're talking about files…" She went into her room and came out with a small box. Inside, an envelope with a Washington postmark held Artie's yellowed obituary. A few others contained newspaper mentions of his own career; a larger envelope held a familiar photograph. _I remember when we had that taken_. He had his own copy – the original - in its own special place of honor. "I always thought you sent these. I'm guessing you didn't?"

It was another twist of the knife. "Absolutely not." _They were meant to think that. I'd have thought it, too._ "Were there letters?"

"No, just these." She looked from the photo to him, and back again. "I should have recognized you. I haven't looked at this in years. Anyway, sorry. But it was a reasonable hypothesis at the time."

"Yeah." He fought to keep his anger hidden, keep it from spilling over onto Maggie. "Can I keep these as evidence?"

"Sure. Throw 'em on the pile."

"Fine." He stood, gathered up the files, and walked past Jonah and Proinsias to the front door. _The city office is a good idea._ The barman and the musician stared at him and at each other. As he went out the door, he could hear Maggie getting back to work. _And if it isn't, we can always try some kicking_.


	6. Chapter 6 - Weldon

West didn't return that afternoon. Grady's was well into what was shaping up to be a slow night. There were still a couple of empty tables, and the atmosphere was subdued. _No rowdies tonight_, thought Maggie. Even the music sounded gentler, muted. Normally, she wouldn't have been happy about it, but she hoped for an early closing and a long night in her own bed. _Maybe five or six hours_.

Jonah could handle the evening's trade by himself. Maggie joined Mira and Thomas at the kitchen table, going over the books and scribbling out her next order. _Time to brew again, too._ Thomas leaned over to ask a question about a passage he was reading. _Maybe it's still too damp – that plaster isn't dry yet._ It was hard to concentrate. The files kept intruding. The files and James West.

James West, her father's partner. He sure wasn't what she expected. Well, she'd never expected to see him at all. _I told Ma she was asking for water from a dry well. I think towards the end, she believed it, but she just couldn't give up. Lynches and Gradys don't give up._

_He doesn't act like a dry well_. She still didn't take his story, or the files, at face value, but her instincts from a lifetime of bartending made her want to believe him. _Who'd make up a story like this? On the other hand, who'd do something like this?_ Maggie had seen revenge before and knew it to be a powerful motive, but the sheer scope and duration of this was outside her experience.

Her father's partner. He was no more a stranger to her than her father was. She knew only her mother's stories about her father, and the few stories her father had told her mother about his partner. They'd made good fairy tales at bedtime, along with the Irish myths, Bible readings and Shakespeare she'd grown up on. For a while, when there was no response to the letters, they'd assumed he'd died too. The newspaper clippings in the post had let them know otherwise. _That's when I stopped believing in fairy stories._

_He doesn't act like a stranger_. His expectations, his emotions. They were buried deep, but came out anyway. _When he saw my file, I thought I was going to have to get out the plaster again_. She didn't want to take on that kind of…connection between them. Too much responsibility, too much risk of disappointment. _Too damned complicated_. And his assumed authority – he was just going to have to get over that. _I'm no loose cannon, but this is my turf. And my life._

The back door opened and they all looked up, expecting Bart. It was Jian. To Mira's amazement, Thomas stood and greeted him formally in Cantonese. Jian replied, gestured the boy to sit down, and entered, moving quickly to a spot not visible from the bar. He had the worried look of a man bringing bad trouble.

Maggie joined him. "_What is it_?"

Jian replied in English, softly. "Your friend from the other night. Some men just took him away. I think they drugged him; they held a cloth over his face and when he stopped fighting, they threw him in a wagon."

_Son of a_…Maggie remembered Mira and Thomas' presence and managed not to say it aloud. She matched Jian's murmur. "Where did they go? Did you recognize them?"

"They've been around. A couple of them were drinking with Ben last week. They might be from Sanderson's; they headed that way."

"Wait." Maggie went into her room. A few minutes later, she returned, stuffing her shirtwaist into jeans. She threw the heavy jacket over it all and sat to pull off shoes and pull on boots. "Can you do something for me?"

"Yes."

The back door opened again, and they all jumped. This time, it was Bart; he stopped short at the tension in the room, and Maggie waved him to come inside quickly and shut the door.

She looked to Jian again. "I need you to send a couple of telegrams. The Secret Service office in Sacramento and the same in Washington." She counted out the words on her fingers. "'Magalia, California. Trouble. Send Help.' Sign it 'James West'. Should I write it, so it looks more official?"

"No."

"Here's the money. Rouse the operator, if you have to, but make him do it. Tell him it's official Secret Service business and there'll be big trouble for him if he doesn't. Then go tell Sheriff Adams what you saw. Tell him I sent you, but don't tell him about the telegrams. Just tell him what you saw." She looked at all of them. "And if anybody asks – I mean, _anybody_ – I just went out. You don't know where."

"The operator might not listen to me." Jian pointed out the obvious.

Bart spoke up. "I'll go with you. He'll listen." Jian studied him, nodded once, and they left together.

Maggie rifled through cabinets and drawers, filling her pockets, shoving her black bag into the icebox. _Good a place as any_. It was Thomas who asked. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to get him."

_I've fallen asleep in my chair. Hard to breathe_. West inhaled deeply and rolled his head upright to lean it backwards. _Can't move my arm_… He came all the way back, aware that he was bound. _The fight_. He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room.

"Good to see you, Jim. No ill effects, I trust?" The man came into view from around his side. "I think we can be on a first-name basis by now, don't you?"

"Weldon. Or should I say 'General Sanderson'?"

Weldon inclined his head. "The same. You do recognize me. I wondered if you would." He crossed the room to a credenza and poured himself a drink, the decanter and glass both glittering in the light. "I'd better get some of this while there's any left." A sullen younger man shifted in his chair at the contempt in Weldon's voice. _Broken nose._ Weldon lifted the glass. "Your health, sir."

"What do you want, Weldon?"

"Oh, there's no need to rush things. I want you to take your time, really experience what I've had to go through. I've been planning this for a long time."

West scanned the room pointedly. "I can see you've been suffering."

Weldon casually walked over to the chair, then suddenly backhanded him across the face with a violent crack. "Don't you talk to me about suffering! You ruined me. Shamed me, drove a sixty year old family business into the ground. Made them convict me like a common criminal."

"What was uncommon about you?" West could feel and taste blood at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't make anybody convict you, you were guilty. You had a fair trial."

"I did no more than anybody else. I was just better at it. They were jealous."

"You counterfeited money and scrip, for both sides. You manufactured and sold bad armaments, to both sides. You took government money in exchange for guns that blew up, when you delivered them at all."

"I gave them what they were willing to pay for. And if the Confederacy wanted to pay, too - in _good_ money - I'm a businessman. Nobody's got any right to stop me making money."

"Soldiers died."

"It was a war. They were soldiers." Weldon spat out the words. "You're an educated man. You know as well as I do, war is like fire. It's necessary to weed out the dead wood from time to time, so the right people can thrive."

"And you're the right people."

"My family has been here since the Mayflower. My ancestors have been in every important government, on every important board. We've run this country from the beginning." He was talking partly to himself. West wondered how much was liquor and how much, sheer madness. "We must go back to those days. Propertied gentlemen. The right people in charge. No degenerate immigrants, no sharecroppers, shopkeepers, no ignorant laborers. We _will_ go back to those days." He drew himself up. "I have never been convicted by a jury of my peers. The verdict is worthless."

"We're not going back to those days." West was stalling, although he didn't know for what. _Try to find out what he's up to_. "What do you think you can do about it?"

Weldon laughed. "Oh, I have plans. Too bad you won't live to see them." He strolled to refill his glass. "In fact, you're going to live just long enough to see me destroy your family. Right in front of you, just like you destroyed mine."

"You're going to destroy the Secret Service?" He knew it wouldn't work, even as he said it.

"Artemus Gordon was your family." Weldon leaned against the credenza. "If he was alive, he'd be beside you now. He was just as responsible for my 'trial'."

"He's dead." Even now, it was hard to say.

"He has a daughter." Weldon smiled. "I've enjoyed toying with her, over the years."

"You haven't been very successful." West watched Weldon's face change. "Elizabeth turned you down, Grady's is still open. Maggie's a good woman and a good doctor; she keeps that end of town going. Artie would have been proud."

"She's scum, from scum." West steeled himself against another blow, but Weldon merely spat. "A two-bit actor for a father, an Irish bluestocking camp follower for a mother, a pandering horse thief for an uncle.

"They beat you."

"Battles. Not the war." Weldon smiled again, the madness radiating off him. "I'm glad they did. It's better this way."

There was a quiet tap at the door. Ben answered it, and summoned his father, circling out of reach as the old man approached. There were murmurs that West couldn't make out.

"What do you mean, she's not there? Where is she?" More murmurs, apology and fear. "Find her! Take the men and go find her! Tear the town apart, if you have to, but find her!"

"Problem?" West asked casually. Ben, out of Weldon's line of vision, smirked at the backtalk. _No love lost there_…

"A temporary delay, that's all." Weldon shrugged. "Your 'good woman' is off playing doctor again." He made it sound filthy. "They'll find her." The sound of horses and men, moving out, was loud enough to penetrate the French doors. _Now there's only the two of them. If I could just get free…_His gun and knife were displayed, tantalizingly out of reach, on Weldon's desk.

The French doors. They were curtained against the moonlight, but West thought he saw movement between the loose fabric panels. _A guard? An animal?_ A thin blade showed briefly at the center, then pulled back out of sight. West shifted his chair to cover the faint scraping sound.

"What is it?" Weldon snapped impatiently.

"Nothing. Velvet always makes me itch, that's all." He coughed and scraped his foot along the chair leg. "Maybe you should fumigate."

Weldon's eyes narrowed and he started to move towards the chair. Behind him, Ben slunk towards the credenza and the decanter. His eyes were too much on his father; he came up against the corner of it with an oath.

With an oath of his own, Weldon whirled and made for his son, his fist raised high. _They're together. Now!_ The French doors crashed open.

Maggie, blessed Maggie, in her roughneck outfit, a sawed-off shotgun in one hand. _I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life_. "What took you so long?"

"I had to see a guy about a horse." She didn't take her eyes off the pair at the credenza. Nobody in the room doubted her willingness to shoot. "Ben, cut Mr. West loose. Now."

The younger man started for the knife on the desk and Maggie raised the shotgun. "Well, how'm I supposed to do that without a knife?"

"Try the one you carry in your right boot."

"I ain't got it on me, I swear." Ben whined.

Maggie smiled. "Well, that's all right then. Just take off your boots." Ben cursed and extracted the knife. He started to walk towards her and was threatened again. "Go the other way. You get within diving distance of me, let alone reach, and I swear to God, I'll shoot you both and cut him loose myself." She shifted herself to a position where she could still cover both men.

_Uhhh, Maggi_e? To West's overwhelming relief, she dug a handgun out of her left pocket and pointed it at Ben. The shotgun stayed against her right hip, trained on the senior Weldon. _Any trouble, Ben gets a single bullet. Weldon gets both barrels. Nice._

Ben freed West's hands; West took the knife from him and Maggie waved him back towards the credenza. West finished freeing himself and she moved forward, so he could cross behind her to get his weapons. "Okay, expert, what next?"

"We take them in." West tossed Ben the coil of rope from next to his chair. "Gentlemen, you're under arrest. Tie him up, Ben. Hands behind his back."

Weldon's glare promised murder, but Ben, faced with an arsenal for an excuse, obeyed. West tied Ben, then checked Weldon's ropes and searched them both. Maggie lowered the shotgun, but kept the pocket gun and her attention closely focused.

"That's the second time you've drawn on me, little girl." If a rattler could speak in a low rumble, it would sound like Weldon. "There won't be a third. You're not your father."

Maggie didn't bother to respond. West checked outside and returned to give Weldon's shoulder a shove. "Get goin'." The two bound men stumbled out. Weldon was deliberately doing his best to slow them down. Ben was only slightly more coordinated. Outside the stable, the wagon that had brought West in was still hitched to a team of horses; West half helped, half threw the pair into the back. Maggie clambered in after, to sit in a corner and train the sawed-off on them. _Pointing away from me, thank you_. West pulled himself up into the driver's seat and took the reins. "Yahh!"

_We have to make it off this road_. It was the only way in or out of Weldon's spread by wagon. _Once we're down the hill, we can head for the town of Paradise. It's not far, we can make it. If we can just get to the bottom of this road._ The grade was steep enough that he couldn't drive full-out without courting disaster.

They got to the bottom and made the turn. They were only a few dozen yards along when he heard Maggie shout up to him. "West!" He looked behind to see a group of riders, some with lanterns, coming up from Dogtown and heading right for them.

Full moon, no cover to pull the wagon into. They were seen. He knew it was hopeless, but he brought the reins down on the team's backs, stinging them into a faster gallop. "Yahhhh!" The wagon bucked and bounced over the rocks and ruts. Maggie didn't even try to fire at their pursuers; it would have been a waste of good lead. She just hung on.

Inevitably, they were surrounded by drawn guns and West pulled the team to a halt. He gave up his own gun and gestured her to lower the sawed-off. She obeyed reluctantly.

Sheriff Adams took it out of her hands and passed it behind him to Jonah. Jonah tried to avoid her gaze. "Maggie, you don't understand."

"There's something I'm not seeing?" _No fuss, just…quiet_. "I can't imagine what that would be."

The other men helped Weldon from the wagon, cutting him loose. It was left to Adams to free Ben, who scrambled down on his own. "Get them down here!" Weldon's words were barely distinguishable. They dragged West unceremoniously from the seat. Jonah helped Maggie over the wagon side and stood behind her, hand on her shoulder and a pistol to her head.

Weldon seemed to have forgotten West; it was her he came for. West fought against the men who held him, but it was over in a few seconds. Jonah brought his pistol down hard on the side of her head and she collapsed into the mud.

"What did you do?" Weldon punctuated the question with a torrent of obscenities.

Jonah stood in front of the unconscious woman. "She was going for her pocket. I thought she had a gun."

_She has a gun. But she wasn't going for it_. Still restrained, West couldn't prevent what happened next. Weldon jumped the barman, striking the gun from his hand, and savagely beat him until he fell to the ground beside Maggie. He tried to rise again, but Weldon seized the man's gun from the ground and pulled the trigger.

Panting heavily, Weldon aimed the gun at Maggie. But his rage had been spent, for the time being, and he put it up. "No. Not yet." He looked at West. "Soon. But she'll be awake for it." He strode away and swung onto Jonah's horse. "Search them. Take them back."

They were almost to the courtyard, when another rider came up the path, skidding to a halt when he saw the guns pointed at him. He raised his hands and squeaked out, "Telegram. You've got a telegram from Washington." Weldon rode back to snatch it from him. "You don't have to sign for it." The rider spun the horse and took off down the hill, much faster than he should have.

At the courtyard, Weldon dismounted, called for a lantern and tore open the envelope. "How did..?" He stormed to the wagon. "What did you do?"

_I don't know_. It didn't seem like a good idea to admit it, so West said nothing. He braced himself again, but Weldon turned on his heel, Ben trailing behind. "Lock them in the mine. I'll deal with them later."

It was left to West, at gunpoint, to haul the unconscious Maggie into the mine. A switch brought dim electric lights into flickering life at the opening Several yards inside, there was an iron gate; perhaps fifteen yards beyond it was another. . The enclosed room remained largely in shadow and the tunnel beyond was pitch black. He placed Maggie gently on the floor at the edge of the pool of light, as far from the guns as he was permitted. _More rope. Damn_. He was bound hand and foot, then pushed to the ground.

"Wait a minute." Sheriff Adams came forward to check the ropes. "He's Secret Service. He'll be tricky." He snugged the ropes binding West's ankles and moved behind him. A small piece of cold metal was pressed into West's hand. _Feels like a penknife_. "Okay, let's go." The gates clanked shut and were locked behind them, leaving a single guard at the opening.

After a few glances their way, the guard was soon bored and West was able to work on the ropes. A quarter hour later, he was free. He crept towards the opening, but before he could get far, Maggie groaned softly. He scuttled back and held his hand over her mouth.

"Hey, get over here!" It was another of Weldon's men, calling to the guard. _He didn't hear her_. The guard gestured back at the gate. "Never mind them, they're not going anywhere. Boss says we need everybody. Move it!"

The guard did as he was told. West slid along the wall until he could look out. The courtyard looked like a hornet's nest that had been knocked off its branch. _Not that way. No cover._

Maggie groaned again Before West could reach her, she tried to rise; then rolled to her knees and began retching. _Concussion_. When her stomach was empty – long after her stomach was empty – she crawled away from the spot and sat holding her head. "Where are we?"

"Shh. In the mine."

Her head jerked up, a movement she quickly regretted. "Jonah. Jonah hit me."

"Shhhh." West put his fingers to her lips to impress on her the need for quiet. "Jonah's dead. He probably saved your life. Weldon killed him."

Her brow creased, but she kept her voice low. "Who's Weldon?"

"Sanderson. His real name is George Weldon." _No time to explain_. "We have to get out of here and we can't go out the front door."

Her head lifted. "You ever see a big mine with just one exit?"

"Yeah."

"Not this one." She began struggling to her feet. He helped her up and they got to the back gate.

It was locked, but they hadn't found his pick set. He locked it again behind them. He reached for Maggie; she was holding herself up by the iron bars. "Can you make it?"

"Do I have a choice?" There was a rueful chuckle in her voice.

"Not if you want to stay alive."

A faint snort responded and she pushed away from the bars. "We'll end up going right. Left takes us to the house tunnel."

"Where does that lead?"

"Sanderson's office. Weldon's. I don't think I'm up to taking him in right now."

"Yeah. But they won't expect us to go that way."

"Well…then what?"

_Front door. French doors_. "I see your point. We'll go right." She brushed the wall with one hand as a guide, getting steadier as she went, until she was moving fast enough in the dark to make him nervous. The air began to change. _Cross currents_. There was a dim light to the left. And a noise. A pounding rhythmic vibration. He tugged at her jacket and turned left, moving from shadow to shadow as the light grew.

The tunnel widened to a large room. Using the nearest support arch for cover, he peeked in. She slid up beside him and dropped to one knee, her head just beneath his. Her eyes widened. There was no way to hear a whisper in the din, but in the light he could read her lips easily. "Oh, that ain't right."

The room was filled with machinery. Huge metal cylinders looked heavy enough to imply liquid or gas under considerable pressure. One end of the room was taken up by the main noisemaker, an engine of some kind, attached to a vat at one end, and to a large box at the other. Banks of lights lined the walls, blinking and flashing. Large bore tubes rolled loose on the floor, and tangled spiderwebs of wire led everywhere.

Weldon strode maniacally through it all. His men, under his shouted directions, stripped a heavy wagon of its strange attachments, right down to the bed, and tipped cylinders onto it. West feared they might wheel it towards them, but instead it was dragged into a different passage. _To the house_. The cylinders themselves were wired and when the wires grew taut, they were spooled out or disentangled until the wagon and its load went out of sight.

Weldon remained behind. He went back and forth behind the engine and, for a minute, West thought he might be alone. Then a man in a torn dirty lab coat ran after him, shouting and gesticulating. Weldon snapped his fingers in the air and two burly toughs came after the scientist. The man fought them, as Weldon struggled to attach a complicated clock to the interior of one of the banks of flashing lights. Finally successful, he slammed the cabinet door shut. Turning back, he bent to the floor for a length of pipe. Redoubling his efforts, the scientist forced his captors back a few feet, behind the engine again. But when the pipe came down, West had no doubt that it had found its mark.

Weldon waved his thugs to follow and they disappeared after the wagon. After a minute, West sprinted to the engine, keeping it between him and the passage. A few seconds later, Maggie joined him.

They were alone in the room, save for the dead scientist. West bent down to shout in her ear. "Wait here."

She grabbed his coat to stop him. He thought she was going to argue, but instead, she shouted back. "I can break this. It's an internal combustion engine. You bust up something else."

"When it stops, they'll come back." She tried to nod emphatically, winced, and gave him a thumbs-up instead.

_Clock. Get the clock_. West opened the cabinet and studied the rat's nest of wiring. "Oh, what the hell." He grabbed the wires in one hand, the clock in the other, and yanked. They came apart. The wires gave off a scalding shower of sparks, but nothing exploded. He carefully left them not touching each other or the cabinet, and moved down the line, taking the clock with him.

Everything was electrified and all the weapons he could find were metal. _Not a good idea_. The cylinders? He had a strong feeling that whatever they contained was best left inside. His foot sent a small tube rolling and he picked it up. _An electric torch, latest model_. He took it along, too.

Suddenly, the room fell silent. He looked back to see Maggie high on a ladder, propped up against the engine. Rags insulating her hands against the heat, she was holding a large disc with concentric circles of wires coming off it. Some were already detached, but the rest were giving her trouble.

He got back just in time. She hugged the disc to her chest and jumped off the ladder. It worked; the remaining wires snapped. But she would have landed badly if he hadn't caught her. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

She pushed herself away from him and the floor. "C'mon, let's get outta here!" They sprinted back into the mines.

Straight ahead in the dark, past the tunnel they had come out of. The light from the room didn't reach this far; Maggie was back to using the wall as a guide. They descended, turned, rose again. She seemed to know where she was going. West hoped so. He wasn't sure he could find his way back.

All the lights came on at once. _Odd how so dim a light can be blinding_. "They're hunting us."

Maggie squinted up at him. "Keep your voice down. Sound travels here." She still had the disc under one arm. "Come on."

They crept on more slowly. The cover of darkness had been an advantage; now they had to fear being seen. Twice, they heard voices and a noisy rush of men. _Sound does travel here, but you can't tell from where or from how far away_. The walls and floor were becoming rougher, less finished. The lights were fewer, older and less well maintained.

Voices very close now. Maggie broke into a run, West close behind. An unlit tunnel dropped away to their right and she darted into it, hauling on his sleeve. Ten yards, twenty? The voices were in the passage they had just left. A lantern flared at the tunnel mouth, just as she hauled him sideways and seemed to disappear beneath him.

They were in a slanted crack in the wall, narrow at the top but wider and deep at the base, like a small den. Maggie squeezed herself down and in as far as she could and tugged West after her. He didn't argue, but crushed himself in on top of her. The damnable disc was bruising his ribs.

"I thought I heard 'em." A rough voice, coming close.

Another voice swore. "You didn't hear nothin'! You lead me on one more wild goose chase and so help me…"

The light approached and passed them. The two men wrangled and cursed their way down the tunnel. West could feel Maggie trying to control her breathing. He was doing the same.

Shouts from the men, and a frantic scramble up the tunnel. "Bad air! Move it! Outta my way!" Both were coughing and choking, staggering in the dark. The lantern had gone out. West could have reached out and touched their ankles as they fled, if he could have seen them. They fell into the lighted tunnel above, out of West's sight. From the sounds, a brief recovery was quickly followed by a very physical assigning of blame, which faded into the distance.

_Whew_. West leaned back against the wall, limp with relief. No movement from Maggie, still curled up at the back of the den. He touched her; she was far too relaxed. _Passed out_. He jostled her; she came awake with a gasp and crawled out to lean against the wall beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "You know this place pretty well."

She matched his whisper. "Hide and seek." She rolled her head up from her chest, to rest against the rock wall. "I never knew it was going to be this useful."

"So Ben knows."

"Yeah, he knows. If he remembers. And Jian. The Three Musketeers."

_Three lonely children in a rough town_. "Where are we?"

"It's a failed passage. They tried to make a new entrance, but they dug wrong. The two tunnels didn't meet; the one from the outside went too deep and hit a pocket of…I dunno, bad air, poison gas…They dug back up to connect them, but they had to abandon it. It just never stops filling up."

"So we have to go back."

"No." _No?_ "We're above the entrance here, and the entrance faces the wind. There's really only about forty feet of bad air. The passage goes down, then up, and at the top there's good air again. And a way out. How long can you hold your breath?"

"How do you know?"

"We used to run through it on a dare. In the dark. You can't keep a light going."

"Did your mother know about this?"

"Oh, hell, no. Are you kidding?" A silence. West tried to imagine her expression. He was glad she couldn't see his. "Okay, you never had kids. But you were one yourself once, right?"

"I was a boy."

"Good on you." Sarcastic. Then startled. "Oh."

"What is it?"

"I forgot. The telegrams."

"What telegrams?"

"You sent two telegrams."

"Whu-ut?" She filled him in quickly. "That's illegal!"

"So sue me. If I signed my own name, nobody would come. I _know_ it's illegal, that's why I told Jian not to tell Sheriff Adams about it."

"They'll know it's not from me." West told her gently. "There are codes."

"Codes. Oh." She slumped. "But they'll come anyway, right? I mean, they have to check it out."

"Yeah, they'll come." _A telegram from Washington. They're on their way._

"Well, we can't wait here." She used the wall to drag herself to her feet. "_Can _we wait?"

_Oh, so I'm the expert again, am I?_ A plan was forming in his mind, and she wasn't going to like it one bit. _Tough_. "No, we can't wait. We've got to get out of here. Forty feet, huh?"

"Or so. Watch your head. They never got a chance to widen it out or raise the ceiling. Breathe deep for a while, then follow me."

"No." West pulled the electric torch out of his pocket and tested it. "You follow me."

She didn't waste precious breath arguing. They crept down the passage until they got the first whiff of foulness, then retreated a few yards. Inhale, exhale, in, out…West saturated himself with good air until he felt almost lightheaded. Maggie was doing the same. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Go." They sped down the tunnel. _Watch your head, indeed_. When it leveled, Maggie slowed; West turned the light to see her silently prop the disc to one side, then catch up again. The rise to the entrance was steep and rocky.

Cold wind, good air. And a shaft of moonlight through a narrow slit between piled boulders. They hung on the boulders and gasped.

"Artemisia. Margaret. Maude. Patricia. Gordon." _I oughtta tan your hide. Later_.

"What?" Maggie was having just as much trouble. "Swear t'God…I was running around here…Thomas' age…and it belonging to Sa…whatsisname…and you're worried about…a little…poison gas?"

_Good point_. West's breathing finally eased. He snapped off the light and began to investigate the exit. It was very narrow. _No sound outside_. He stripped off his coat and handed it to Maggie. In a few minutes, with only a little skin missing, he was free. And alone. The entrance was unguarded. _Ben didn't remember_.

Maggie handed him his coat, followed by her jacket, and wriggled herself through the crack. "That used to be easier. Brrr." She kept her voice at a whisper as she hurried her jacket back on. "If you want your horse, we'll have to backtrack a little."

_It'll be morning in a few hours_. Riding double and with no need to follow any road, they'd circled north through the hills, keeping inside the tree line. _Time to split up_. The next rise brought the town into view and West reined in the horse.

Fire. Dancing orange light, chaos in the street. No doubting from where, from which building.

She looked around his shoulder and saw it too. With an inarticulate cry, she kicked the horse forward. West dragged on the reins, forcing it to halt again, barely keeping it upright. "Maggie, no! That's what they want. They're waiting for you."

Maggie wasn't listening. Dismounting off the back, she ran for it. West kicked the horse into motion and, reaching her, dove off to tackle her to the ground. _Okay, she can fight. Ow._

Two things helped him. One was his heavy winter clothing; the other was the fact that she wasn't trying specifically to cripple him, only to get free. On the other hand, he didn't want to hurt her, either. He hauled her up and backwards into him, trying to restrain her. "Stop it!" In quick succession, her heel nailed his shin just below the knee and scraped downwards to smash into his instep. Her elbow piled hard into his midsection; it was cushioned by the sheepskin, but he still bent a little. She bent with him, then reversed into a smashing head strike backwards. He got his face out of the way just in time and let go. Dodging a kick to just below his buckle, he stepped on a root and went sprawling. She was on the run again.

Patience gone and temper rising, he limped after her. She was on open ground, in plain sight of anyone who cared to look. She stopped and he caught up to her, bringing her down.

_She stopped_. He looked up and saw the falling of a tower of sparks, sent up by the final collapse of Grady's. Maggie watched it too.

A cloud scudded across the moon and West used the shadow to get her into the trees again. She went without a fight. Back under cover, she shook him off and walked a few paces away.

_No fuss, just…quiet_. West feared for her mind. Nobody could bear this much without some emotion, and not break. She leaned her face against the horse's shoulder, patting it. It shuffled sideways and she crumpled.

He had seen women cry before. It was often a release and sometimes almost a relief. A good cry. This was different. This was a losing battle, every second hard-fought. The sobs were eerily silent; the only sound, a ghastly intake of air when she ran out of breath.

He held her. She didn't hold him back, taking no comfort from him, but too lost in her pain to pull away. He held her anyway. It was all he could do.

Finally the racking shudders subsided. She became aware of him again and drew back. He let go, but stayed close, kneeling beside her. She snuffled and scrubbed her face with her sleeve before he could reach for a handkerchief. "Sorry."

_Sorry?_ "Maggie…"

"We can't just sit here in the muck all night." Her voice was dull, dead. "Let's go get him."

"Like hell, we will!" West regretted it as soon as it came out. _Mixed company_. "You're in no condition."

She didn't even look at him. "You don't have to come along, if you don't want to."

"You can't!" He helped her rise. "Maggie, what do you think you're going to do?"

"Stop him. He's going to keep going til we show up. Look." She gestured at the chaos below. "Those are my friends."

'This is my job." He pulled her to face him. "I'm going down. You're leaving."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Look at yourself, you can hardly stand up. You have a concussion; you've had a shock. You belong in a hospital."

"Stop treating me like a child!" Toe to toe, ready for all-out war. With him, if he stood in her way. This was no child.

"I'm not treating you like a child, I'm treating you like a doctor." West matched her force. "You're a doctor, and a damned good one. _Think_ like a doctor! You've got a patient just like you and they want to act just like you. What would you tell them?"

Maggie had no answer for a long minute. Then, "Do me a favor. Treat me like a child again."

"Why?"

"Because I really, _really_ want to belt you right now." She wasn't joking.

"Maggie, I couldn't have gotten this far without you." _Seo dhuit_. "But you can't help any more. I'll stop him. You have to get out of my way. Get to safety."

"Where's that?" _Good question_. "There's nowhere to go."

"Just go. I'll catch up with you later." He anticipated her response. "If I don't, go to Washington. I'll meet you there."

He was braced for an explosion., not a drop-jawed stunned silence. "Washington?" She blinked. "Have you bloody well lost your mind?"

"Why not?"

Now she sounded as if she were explaining something to a child. "Because your friends are not my friends. I mean, I know they're not…Weldon. But if he got his way, there wouldn't exactly be a run on black armbands, would there?"

"I'll be there."

"And if you're not?"

"Then they'll need to know what happened."

Here was the explosion. "They're not going to believe a word I say. And if I show up, the last person to see you alive, they're going to throw away the key!"

"I'll _be_ there. I promise." She just shook her head. "Maggie, I have to go. We're wasting time. I need your word." She kept shaking her head. He sighed. _Well, I took a shot_. "All right. I'll take you there. We'll go together."

He took her arm to guide her toward the horse. She wrenched it free. "What about Weldon?"

"What about him?" Impatience roughened his voice. "I can't do both."

"You bastard!" She was balanced on a knife edge and West held his breath. _Which is it going to be – surrender or war?_

Her sense won out. He knew she was beaten. She knew it too. "I need your word." he repeated.

"All _right_. Just tell me where to go, and get down there." Her voice echoed the pain in her face.

"Your word."

"My word."

He gave her directions to his office, a training center on the outskirts of the Capitol. "Just in case. I'll catch up with you, as soon as this is under control. Stay out of sight, be careful." She mounted the horse; it danced a little sideways. "Can you manage?'

"Who do you think you're talking to?" The horse reined in, she sat straighter, almost regal. "Be there."


	7. Chapter 7 - Office

Frank Harper sat in West's office, watching him wear a path in the Persian rug. They'd had too many meetings like this over the past few weeks. The woman had disappeared without a trace, and they had to face the possibility that she'd been captured and might be dead, or that her word was worthless. Jim wasn't facing either, yet.

Frank was no longer with the Service – in fact, he was retired. He'd had a good career, and afterwards had served several terms as a Congressman. He still had a lot of friends in both places. But these were the people with whom he went back the farthest, and felt the closest. They were family, every bit as much as his wife, kids and grandkids.

There'd been earlier meetings, of which Jim had been unaware. When Jeremy Pike took over running the Service, a few months earlier, he found out about the ongoing investigations into the Grady-Lynch clan. The discovery had been an accident, although he supposed that it would have come out eventually. After Jerry had recovered from the initial shock, he'd called in Frank and they had begun to make their own quiet inquiries. There was no reason to doubt the data in the file, but the secrecy made them both uneasy – Hell, it just smelled hinky – and they had agreed not to let Jim in on it until they had more information.

But Jim disappeared, and turned up in Magalia. His telegrams, which he hadn't sent, summoned every available agent to the area. The place was turned upside down and inside out and, while Weldon and his son had vanished, the Service was still sorting through carloads of evidence. Engineers were trying to decipher the machinery, although some vital portions obviously were gone. Missing documents were recovered and the lab declared them genuine. The entire thing had been dragged into a very public light of day, embarrassing some now highly placed people.

Jim was livid. His confrontation with Jeremy and Frank nearly came to blows before he calmed enough to accept their explanations and their apologies. He was in on it now – up to his neck – and Frank knew that only his promise to meet the woman in Washington kept him from bolting again to join the search.

"You're sure she's not just hiding with friends? Jian, or Torrey?" They'd covered all that before, but it didn't hurt to ask again.

"No, she didn't come back to town." Jim shook his head. "The trail was heading northwest when it gave out." He went back to looking through the papers on his desk, and held one up. "Have we at least stopped the 'Wanted' posters?"

That was the newest development. Fliers were showing up all over, promising a substantial reward for her delivery 'Dead or Alive'. They looked official enough to be a real concern, even though they had only a sketch instead of a photograph, and were lacking details as to both her offense and the location to which the delivery was to be made. A few men had been caught posting them, but the men had no idea who their employer was, only that they had been given fifty cents, tacks and a tall stack of papers. They were just dim enough to believe that more pay would be due them when they finished the job, and were outraged at the interference.

"We're trying, Jim, but it's like bailing with a thimble." West threw the paper down and turned to the rain-streaked window. "Look, it's getting close to dinner. What do you say we go grab a bite and come back to this in an hour?" He wasn't listening. "Jim, you don't really believe after all this time, she's just going to come walking up that road, do you?"

West was looking down at something; Frank came over to see what it was. Someone was coming up the road - a laborer, from the look of him. He moved with the deliberate care of a man who was trying hard to look sober, and almost succeeding. Out of long habit, Frank catalogued his physical characteristics – a small man, sturdy build. Black hair under a disreputable cap, and a dark five o'clock shadow that was approaching half past ten. He looked drenched to the skin and Frank suspected that was the cleanest he'd been in a while.

The man came to an uncertain stop at the driveway, dug a wet scrap of paper out of a sodden pocket and squinted at it closely. Stuffing it away, he pulled out a flask and took a long swig, stopping only when he was racked with a rattling cough. _Well, that doesn't look good at all_. The man hawked and spat, dragged his sleeve under the tip of his nose – and turned up the drive.

"What do you suppose that's about?" No answer. "Jim?" Frank turned just in time to see Jim West going out the door.

Frank caught up to him at the elevator. It was slow enough in coming that West had begun to head for the stairs when the door finally opened, and he had to backtrack. It took an eternity to descend two floors. The door finally opened again, to the sounds of gunfire and shouting. They both broke into a dead run.

By the time they reached the entrance, guards had dragged the laborer inside. Some of them pointed guns towards a spot across the road, although there was no longer any sound coming from there. Others were trying to restrain and search the man, who was on the ground, but still struggling. More men crowded into the hall, in response to the attack. West snapped off an order to an older man to organize the confusion, waded into the fracas and began pulling men off the laborer and tossing them aside. "Stand down!" They backed off, staring at him.

West crouched in front of the man, grabbing his shoulders. (_Man?_ Frank thought. _ His beard is…smearing._) "Are you all right?"

His – her – hands came up to grip West in response. She sagged a little, but shrugged. "I've been worse."

West hauled her upright, propping her against the wall. "Where the hell have you been?"

Frank thought he should intervene, but had no chance. "Where the hell have I been? Where the hell have I been?" She took a deep breath. "Have you ever tried to get all the way across this entire goddamned country without one nickel in your pocket, and people trying to kill you?" The last few words were shouted directly into his face.

"Yes." West's tone was flat. They were still gripping each other a little too tightly.

"Then don't give me 'Where the hell have I been'. It's hard!" They glared at each other for a long moment. Then she took another deep breath. "Well, so. I'm here. Where do we go now?"

"My office." He let go of her, turned on his heel and stalked away. She slid an inch down the wall, but caught herself and straightened.

"Literalist!" She huffed exasperatedly, and began to plod after him. She stopped when she heard a gun cocked behind her, and turned slowly; hands spread low, but in plain sight. "What, are you going to argue with him?"

The young guard, no more than a senior student, looked at her nervously. "No, ma'am, you're doing a fine job. But you can't just…I, I mean…I ...You need an escort."

She turned back to the hallway, and saw it was empty. "Well…now."

Frank finally found his voice. "I'll escort the lady, with your permission. Perhaps you could accompany us."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Harper."

Suspicious brown eyes assessed him, noting his age, the honorific, and God knew what else. She walked silently beside him, glancing around. Her face and body were tautly controlled. "You know, you're not going to face a firing squad."

Those eyes flicked up at him. "Oh, no. Of course not." She looked forward again. "That's just so passé." Another few steps. "What _is_ the current style, anyway?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. The elevator door opened and he gestured her inside, following to stand beside her, and allowed the young guard to work the controls. She angled herself to watch the operation. It occurred to Frank that she had never been in an elevator before. _You've got to be kidding me_. And then something else occurred to him in the tiny closed room and he gave voice to it. "What is that smell?"

"I am sorry about that. It's ammonia." She looked a little sheepish. "I had a bottle in my pocket. In all the excitement – well, it either broke, or the cork came out. I'm going to have to do something about it, too. It's a bit caustic."

"Ammonia. Oh." Frank felt distinctly off balance, and he wasn't sure it was entirely due to the fumes. He looked down at her. The cap was gone and he could see that her wet hair was cut short and dyed black, but the roots were beginning to come in lighter. The door opened and they continued into blessedly fresh air and to West's office.

West was on the telephone, but not speaking, as they came in. His aide, Charlie Rosen, had passed them in the hall, moving quickly and taking the stairs. He dismissed the young guard with a wave and suddenly became attentive to the device he held. "Jer? It's Jim. Maggie's come in. Yeah, here. I think you'd better. Right."

He stood and came around the desk. "I'll take the coat." She shrugged it off. _Not sturdy, just a large coat_. _I was right about soaked to the skin, though._ To Frank's relief, there was no blood on the shirt or pants. West rifled through the coat pockets, emptying them onto the desk. A small pot of dark paste, a dark-stained nailbrush, a deck of cards, a handkerchief, a blank scrap of wet paper, a few coins, and bullets. "Gun?"

"Your men have it. I want it back."

He held up the flask. "How much of this have you had?"

"A few drops. I put my tongue over the mouth."

His nose wrinkled and he motioned for her to empty the rest of her pockets. Not much left; only a little folding money, a compass, a jackknife, and glass. She removed it as carefully as she could, but still had to yank a sliver out of one finger, and scraped at the site with her thumbnail. West sniffed the broken bottleneck with the cork still in it. "Ammonia?" She nodded. "Why?"

"I didn't want people getting close. If I soaked my handkerchief corner in it and hung it out of my pocket; people gave me a pretty wide berth. When I needed to get close, I just washed the cloth. I didn't plan on breaking the bottle."

She was still scraping distractedly at her finger, and West took her wrist to inspect it – then took the other hand and turned it palm-up as well. Both hands were covered in cuts and other injuries, in various stages of healing. Scowling, she pulled them away and he stepped back. "Take off your boots."

"Fine, but you should know there's a folding razor in that one." No response. She shrugged and obeyed, handing him the razor formally enough to suggest sarcasm. The dripping socks were more hole than wool, and her feet were in worse shape than her hands.

Frank cleared his throat softly. "Maybe you should sit down, Miss Gordon.", he suggested.

West shook his head. "No time for that. The doctor will be here any minute." He crossed to his inner office and opened the door. "You'll go in there and he'll give you a full physical examination." The way he stressed the word 'full' left no doubt as to his meaning. She started to object, but he continued over her.

"Then you're going to clean up – there's a bathroom, with a tub and hot water. Take as long as you need. The doctor will check you over again afterwards. Food and drink are on the way." He went into the room and came back with a dressing gown. "We'll get you something to wear, but in the meantime, use this."

There was a knock on the door and the doctor entered, stopping short at the sight of his patient. Both ignored him. Frank wondered if she might try to bolt, or fight. "Is this necessary?" Her voice was grim.

"Yes."

It took a long few seconds, but she finally took the garment. However, she didn't budge. "I need to know something."

"Not now."

"Now." The way she had her bare feet planted suggested that if West wasn't going to answer, he was going to have to pick her up and carry her. In his present mood, Frank wouldn't have put it past him. "Did everybody make it out all right?"

Whatever West had expected, it hadn't been that. She was searching his face for any clue to the answer. He gave it to her. "Yes. All your friends are fine. Mira had a girl."

She dipped her chin once, and walked into the inner office.

Jeremy must have broken several traffic laws, but less than an hour later, three men waited in West's office, sharing a drink and talking quietly. Maggie had bathed, eaten, and was dressing in the inner room; they could hear her movements and a few coughs.

The doctor had given his report. "She says she was traveling mostly by freight car. Her injuries seem consistent with that. Add exhaustion, malnourishment, mild hypothermia. I don't like that cough or the sound of her chest, but I don't think it's serious." He smiled thinly. "Neither does she. I'll run the tests and let you know."

"Then there's no sign of abuse." It was a statement, but West's look made it a question.

"I don't think so. None recent enough to be visible. No needle marks, either." And with little more discussion, he had gone

."I'm glad to hear that." That was Jeremy.

"We all know there are…other ways." Jim ran his hand over his face and head.

Frank stretched in his chair and tried to sound reassuring. "Well, she's here now. We can check it all out. We've got time."

"We will." Jeremy again. "Jim, I'm going to have to ask you to hold back. This one's got to be by the book."

"You don't think I can do that?"

"I know you can. I just don't think you should." He stood and walked a few steps. Before he could continue, the inner door opened. They all turned; Frank and Jim standing.

Maggie was shaking her head and suppressing a grin, not too successfully. The female staff had already left for the day, and in any case, none of them kept a change of clothes at the office. West's aide had searched the entire building, finally returning with a suit of black cotton Chinese men's pajamas. She'd still had to turn up the sleeves and pants cuffs. The dressing gown added an extra layer for warmth. Shoes were out of the question, but thick wool socks covered her feet, as well as an inch or two of the floor beyond.

Frank thought they were likely West's socks; he recognized the worn dressing gown outright. Jim had posed as the dandiest dude that ever crossed the Mississippi in his own private railroad car. He'd thoroughly enjoyed the car, the wardrobe and the expense account to maintain them – well, they all had. Left to his own tastes and his own bank account, Jim had tamped it down a couple levels. But, as Jeremy said, the man had style. After all this time, most of those clothes had long since vanished, but he'd hung onto this dressing gown.

"I don't have to stand here and be laughed at. I can go anywhere and be laughed at." She padded into the room, looking curiously at the newcomer.

"Maggie Gordon, this is Director Jeremy Pike." West made the introductions. "Frank Harper, you've already met."

The curiosity and good humor left her, and the tautness returned. She made no move to approach, but merely acknowledged him stiffly. "Director Pike." Frank might as well have not even been in the room.

Wisely, Jeremy made no move to approach her either, but bowed slightly. "I'm very happy to meet you, Miss Gordon. Please sit down."

She did, accepting another cup of coffee from Frank. Jeremy gestured an offer for her to join them in a sip of liquor. "No, thank you."

_I suppose it was inevitable._ This wasn't going to be easy, but Frank supposed it could have been worse. She hadn't actually gone for Pike's throat, and there were no tears, recriminations or demands. It occurred to him that there weren't going to be any demands – she didn't expect anything from them. Nothing but another hard time

"We'd almost given up hope." Pike seated himself, turning the chair to face hers.

"I don't do this for a living."

"I'm sorry you had to cut your hair." He studied her. "Was that really necessary?"

"If I'd come up the road in a dress and parasol, do you think I'd have made it to the front door?"

"I guess not. How did you know?"

"I knew people were looking for me; it was a safe bet."

"_We_ were looking for you." He paused for an answer, but she just shrugged, not caring. "Do you have any knowledge of Weldon's recent whereabouts or activities?"

"Well, if it had been your guys shooting at me out there, they probably wouldn't have bothered to drag me inside."

"Our guys?" His eyebrows shot up. "Miss Gordon, you really don't trust us, do you?"

That surprised a genuine laugh out of her. "Oh, boy, that could be answered a couple of ways! I suppose the simplest is that I don't actually know any single one of you from Adam's off ox. And my experience with your organization as a whole has been lousy."

"What's the other way?" That was Jim, not holding back.

"Hmm?"

"You said there were a couple of ways. What's the other one?" His face was expressionless.

Maggie looked back at Pike. "I walked in here of my own free will, under my own steam. Then I walked in there", she jerked a thumb, "and got naked." She spread her hands, palms up. "How much more trust do you want?"

That rocked Pike enough to get him up out of his chair. It rocked Frank, too. _Ladies… just don't talk like that_. West continued to look stony, but his eyes were intense. Frank wasn't sure if it was anger, or some other emotion.

Pike finally broke the silence. "Lady, you don't pull your punches."

"You got a lot of time to waste?"

It was Jeremy's turn to laugh. "I don't even know what that feels like." He sat on the desk corner. "Why did you come?"

"I said I would." She shot a look at West. "I think the head injury had a lot to do with it." She turned back to Pike abruptly. "I want to help you catch Weldon."

"You want to…help us…catch Weldon." Jeremy stared at her. "You don't trust us, you don't like us. And you want to help us catch Weldon."

"I wasn't aware liking you was a prerequisite."

Pike took his time getting back to the chair and sitting. "Revenge, Miss Gordon? On Weldon, I mean."

"Oh, that's definitely in it." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "On Weldon, I mean. And there's whatever he's up to. Somebody has to stop him." She gestured. "So, that's the worst and the best of it. If you want something in the middle, let's just say I flat out don't like getting shot at."

Pike shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, Miss Gordon, but this is our job. You have to let us do it."

"If it was as easy as all that, you'd have gotten it done before I got here." _Ok, that hurt._ "Yeah, this is your job, and maybe you fought with Weldon once, but I _know_ this guy. I grew up spitting distance of his house. I know the people he hires, I know the people who hang around him. I used to play with his kid."

"No." West was looking at Pike, not Maggie.

Frank thought it was time to intervene. "I think you can help, Miss Gordon." He ignored West's glare. "Just tell us everything you know." _We'll take it from there_, he promised silently.

Pike raised a hand. "I think we're getting ahead of ourselves. First," he addressed Maggie. "First, we need you to tell us everything that happened to you, after you and Jim split up. Everywhere you went, everything you did, everybody you talked to. I'd like to start tonight, if you're up to it."

She was up to it. After an hour, Pike suggested they stop for the night and resume in the morning. It was Maggie who insisted they continue, finally overriding him with a curt "Let's just get it done. I can keep going as long as you can." As time passed, they all were exhausted, but oddly enough, it became easier. Tensions faded and defenses lowered, if only a little.

It was a…unique interrogation. Jim had given Maggie time to rest and regain some measure of equilibrium right at the outset. Now Pike was allowing her a limited control over the procedure. It was not how suspects were usually treated, but Maggie was no usual suspect. _And if we push a confrontation, there might be no coming back_.

At first they'd gone through it in chronological order, as best as she could remember; first quickly, then in detail. Now they were going over it again, as well as examining random memories and trying to fit them in. Rosen kept notes. Maggie had a keen sense of the ridiculous, and she could tell a story. Frank hoped that wasn't all it was.

Muddling her trail as best she could, she'd ridden to the Basque ranch for help, and stayed several days. During that time, three groups of men came asking about her, and were sent away. It was there that she'd decided to travel as a man, and they helped her cut and dye her hair. Her head healing and in different clothes, she rode with them to Red Bluff, where they left her, taking the horse with them. She'd already decided to travel by train, dipping south for warmth.

In many towns, she'd stayed hidden in a freight car and never found out the name at all. Often, the trains had gone in unexpected directions.

"It's not like a passenger train. You can't ask where a car is going, without people getting suspicious. I just kept trying to go east. I got on one train in Arizona and as soon as it got across the mountains, it turned north. In the middle of the night; I was halfway to Minnesota before the sun came up and I figured it out." West raised his eyebrows. "Ok, maybe not that far. But far enough."

She'd gotten off whenever it looked like they were coming into a town big enough for a rail yard. Rail yards came with railroad bulls, and they spelled trouble. She also disembarked whenever she needed supplies. That was where the deck of cards came in.

"I could wander into a saloon when it wasn't too busy and buy a beer, start playing with the cards. When somebody seemed interested, I'd show them the three card monte trick. Never actually run a game – if I got arrested, that'd be the end of me. But I'd show them twice, nickel a time, just to keep it interesting. Never more then twice per person, and I always kept it friendly. Had to lose a couple of times, too. Just a trick to pass the time." She looked mischievous. "Once everybody in the place had donated a dime, I had enough to stake me at a couple poker games. I usually walked away with enough for a hotel meal and some supplies."

Frank knew he was grinning ear to ear. "And you never got in trouble?"

"Are you kidding?" She grimaced. "My bonehead errors were only equaled by the longest run of dumb luck in recorded history."

Pike snorted. "Never underestimate the power of dumb luck."

"Never overestimate its availability." She chuckled. "I did like the sheriff in Pagosa Springs. I knew enough to avoid the young bucks, but one wandered in after I'd started and he just wouldn't let up. Wanted to keep going, and sicced the sheriff on me when I wouldn't. Sheriff walked me down to his office and I didn't know what I was going to do. He told me he'd already found out I wasn't running a game, but the kid was trouble and I'd better move on out. Gave me two whole bucks to get my kit restocked. Nice guy."

So many towns. _No wonder we couldn't trace her_. _She'd moved over the country like a drunken sailor. And if we couldn't trace her, Weldon couldn't either. That's why he came here to wait_.

"By Amarillo, I was starting to feel like I had my feet under me. I had some money, so I decided to take a chance and bought a ticket on a Pullman going to Charleston."

"Why Charleston? Why not Washington?" West asked.

"Too risky. I didn't think my disguise was that good. But if I could just get to the Atlantic Ocean, all I'd have to do was head north." She sighed. "That train was heaven. I hit that berth like it was my last hope of salvation. I don't think I cared if I ever woke up again." She sipped cold coffee, frowning at it. "Sleeping's the worst. It's hard to find someplace private."

"And public's too risky. We know." Frank wished he could read Jim's expression. _Artie could have. Not me._

"In the morning, I ate in the dining car. Spent a few minutes in the observation car, then went back and saw that somebody had gone through my stuff. Things were moved." She massaged the bridge of her nose and sat back. "They didn't find anything. I kept everything suspicious in my pockets."

"What did they find?" Pike asked.

"Just a small bag. It had a shaving kit – the jar with the 'beard' was in my pocket. Soiled men's underwear. A dog helped me with that. At least I think it was a dog." She laughed at their expressions. "I wanted to be sure anybody looking in there wouldn't be thinking 'female'. And I wanted them to stop looking."

"I'll bet they did." Frank chuckled.

She laughed, too. "Yeah. A bottle of rotgut – I splashed it around and poured some out the window, so the level would drop. It was a good excuse to stay in my berth during the day, A really filthy paperback I found in a rail yard and a couple of police blotter magazines."

"Where's the bag now?" West interrupted.

"Down the road about a mile. There's a church connected with a school, I think. It's in the bushes across the road."

"What did you do?" Pike asked.

She understood what he meant. "I lay there and panicked for fifteen minutes. Then I decided to let it ride." She pulled the dressing gown around her. "They didn't find anything and maybe it wasn't…personal. Maybe it was just a thief. He can't have been searching every train in America." _I think we were_. "Anyway, whoever it was, maybe they were searching every berth. Getting off at the next stop would have been a dead giveaway. Let alone jumping off when the train slowed for a curve."

"You wouldn't."

"Well, I have done. Not from a passenger train." She looked rueful. "All I know is, I've never had a good meal turn so bad, so fast. I thought I was going to lose everything." She raked her hair back with her fingers and yawned. "Making myself go to supper was not easy."

They took a break, sending Rosen down to make a fresh pot of coffee since the cook was long gone. Just to change the subject, Frank asked about the Battle of Grady's, and Maggie told the saga. "Just us and the damndest collection of old men and fancy ladies you ever saw in your life. And I love every one of them." Her chin was truculent and her eyes sparkled defiantly, but she was grinning.

"I don't blame you a bit." Jeremy sounded like he meant it. "And you think Weldon was behind it?"

"I think he organized it. They had everything short of a field piece. And he's just that kind of vindictive."

"What kind of vindictive is he?"

She pushed her hair back again. "He can't handle being beaten at anything. He's destroyed people who crossed him a lot less. And it was worse, because it was us." She looked up at West. "He hates me more than he hates you."

"Why?"

"He doesn't think he's beholden to any rules. But everybody else is. Nothing gets him madder than somebody else being…unconventional. That's reserved for him." Her mouth was wry. "I don't mean you're conventional, but he expects you to put up a fight. He still plans to take you down, but he doesn't think you're a crime against nature."

"Is his son the same way?" Frank asked.

"No, God, no. Weldon wouldn't allow it." Her eyes shadowed. "It's…hard to explain how it is with Ben. Weldon demands absolute obedience, and he despises Ben for giving it to him. If Ben obeys, he's not a man. If he tries to stand up to him – Ben's been beaten senseless more than once. Strong or weak, he gets it either way. Names, vilification, the back of his hand, the front of his fist. Kid hasn't willingly drawn a sober breath in years." Her snort was quiet, and not at all amused. "Kid. He's three years older than I am." She looked up at Pike. "Don't get me wrong, Director, I don't like Ben. He's a sniveling bully, and you don't turn your back on him. But if there's a Hell, Ben lives in it."

"What about you?" Pike asked quietly. "Do you believe in rules?"

"I believe in the big ones. Do good and avoid evil, that sort of thing. I've never been a churchgoer; that always disappointed Ma."

"You were confirmed." Frank noted.

"Yeah." She paused. "What _is_ it about the name 'Maude', anyway?"

Pike choked into his coffee. Frank bit his lips, but couldn't stop his shoulders from shaking. Even West twitched a little. She glared at them all. "What?!"

"Your father's great-aunt.' Jeremy's voice sounded a little strangled. "It's a long story." He put up a hand to forestall her. "As you say, we don't have a lot of time to waste."

_I think they call that the old fisheye_. But she went back to the previous subject. "It's the little rules that get me. The ones that say I can't put on dungarees and fix the boiler. I've got this other rule about not letting people freeze to death. And all the ones that say I have to spend every waking minute being bored out of my skull." She stretched her neck and coughed. "I'm never going to be standard issue. If that's going to be a problem – well, you can get upset, or you can get over it."

_So, not above the rules, but not willing to abide by convention, either_. _Not willing – or not able?_ He supposed it didn't matter right now. Her directness was unnerving, but Frank thought she was telling the truth.

"Fair enough." Pike nodded brusquely and moved to the desk to skim over Rosen's notes. There was a sudden crescendo of voices in the hall, one of them Rosen's. "Mr. Jonson. Mr. Jonson!"

The door banged open against the wall. Frank knew the man who strode in. Representative Jonson was a self-appointed force on the Appropriations Committee. Some said he had dedicated his career to keeping the purse strings cinched tighter than a chicken's backside. He usually held his mouth pursed even tighter. He supported women's suffrage only because it was the pro-temperance position, but otherwise held consistently to a policy of Noblesse Oblige; heavy on the Noblesse, light on the Oblige. _Who invited him? This is not going to be good._

Rosen followed, still holding the coffeepot. "Sir, the gentleman insisted…"

"Never mind." West waved him off. "May we help you, Mr. Jonson?"

"You may explain what's going on here." His scandalized eyes raked over the unshod figure in pajamas and dressing gown as if she were unclothed. "The notorious Miss Lynch, I presume."

Pike intervened smoothly. "Miss Gordon, may I introduce Representative Loren Jonson. Mr. Jonson, this is Miss Margaret Gordon." He stressed the surname lightly.

"The Devil it is." He stalked past to plant himself face to face with Pike. Maggie, now facing the rear panorama, also declined to rise and respond to the introduction. From her expression, at least she wasn't taking this seriously. "You are aware that this - this creature's – claim has been dismissed repeatedly?"

"We're not discussing a claim, at present. This is an active investigation."

"It's about time!"

"Of a criminal whose operations were based near Miss Gordon's home." Pike's eyes narrowed, but his voice remained cool. "The lady has been considerable help already, at great personal risk, and she'll be involved for the duration."

"And you believe her?" A harsh bark of laughter. "God knows, I've had my doubts about you, Pike, but I never took you for a fool before. And you, Mr. Harper." He didn't bother to disguise his scorn. "Nobody expects James West to have any decent judgment about this, but I might have thought better of you."

James West's voice was ominously quiet. "This _is_ my office."

"Which I pay for. And your salary." Jonson dismissed him, turning back to Pike. "Can't you see? Nothing else has worked, so she's playing at this to get to you. Lady? There's nothing ladylike about her. She's been on the game since she was at her mother's knee."

Frank thought he was ready for Jim's move, but barely got a hand on him. _Damn. He's still fast_. And then a voice cracked like a Springfield carbine.

"West!" Maggie was on her feet now. She stopped West just short of his target, but the tension in his body promised that he wouldn't stay still long. Her eyes held him. "I think this is mine to answer. If I may."

Slowly, he gestured for her to proceed.

"First." She faced Jonson fearlessly, voice and eyes level. "The only ladylike choice you people ever gave us was to go find a field, and lay down in it, and die. Somehow, we just didn't think that was a reasonable option. So if my behavior isn't _quite_ up to your specifications, I respectfully submit you've only yourselves to blame."

"Second – and for the record, and whether you care to believe it or not - the only game I've ever been on involved cards. And if you don't care to believe it, you can go soak your head!"

Jonson's mouth gaped open. "I beg your pardon!"

"I doubt that, but you should." Red-faced, he tried to interrupt again, but she was on a roll. "Shut up!" It was a full-throated roar, eyes blazing. "Third. I don't care about your money, I don't care about this place, and I sure as hell don't care about you! I am here for one reason only, and I don't plan to stay – although if you don't mind, I'll keep indoors till they've stopped shooting at me. In the meantime, you'd just better calm down and mind your blood pressure, because the way you're going, you're going to hurt yourself."

Deliberately, she turned to West. "Now, I'd be happy to keep working all night, if I thought it was going to get us any further, but it's not. I'm done; I'm going to sleep now. I'll be happy to use that couch or curl up in the corner on the floor, if that's all there is, but I'm pretty sure you've got a cot, or a room, or a cell someplace you're planning to put me in."

"Mr. Rosen." Jim could be the soul of protocol, when he felt like it. "Are the lady's quarters ready?"

"Yes, sir!" _Charlie, if you don't stop looking like that, you'll be next on Jonson's list._

Jeremy took over. "Please escort Miss Gordon to her room."

"I'm not through!" Jonson was nearly apoplectic. "You're going to be found out. We're going to investigate you as many times as it takes, until you go to prison where you belong!"

She shrugged. "Have at it. Knock yourself out. Please." She turned to go.

"Don't you turn your back on me!" He lunged for her wrist and spun her to face him again.

Startled, she let the spin bring her around, freeing her wrist with a sharp rotation that broke his grip and nearly his thumb. Her other arm came up instinctively in a protective block and she drew back a fist.

"Maggie!" This time it was Jim's voice and it was Maggie who froze.

She glanced once at him, but kept her attention on Jonson. For a long moment, it felt like everyone had forgotten how to breathe. Then she slowly brought her arms down.

"Don't." It was a warning. She was…very still; her arms slightly away from her body, her stance balanced and stable. _Jim said she can fight. I don't know if she can take Jonson, but she looks like she thinks she can._

It was enough to convince Jonson. He broke and nervously stumbled back a few steps. Deliberately, she turned her back on him again and walked toward Rosen and the door.

"You weren't brought up right!" Jonson's voice shook with rage.

She kept walking. "That's what I hear. I'm planning to put it on my tombstone." She jabbed a finger into the air for emphasis. "In about forty years!" And she was gone.

They stood stunned for a few seconds. Then Pike moved briskly to the desk to busy himself. Frank strolled to the credenza to pour a drink. Looking at West, he poured a second and, on reflection, a third for Jeremy. _That was a classic Artie exit._ He wanted to smooth the hair on the back of his neck.

"This stops now." Jonson's voice was still shaking. "She's got no business being here. You cut her loose and let her crawl back where she came from."

Pike raised a hand to stop West from answering. Jeremy had watched the argument without interfering, but now he was taking charge. "This is an investigation. Your committee doesn't control Service operations." He tapped a stack of paper into line. "She's made it clear the treasury is safe. I think you can go now."

The congressman looked smug. "My committee may have no jurisdiction, but the public would be very interested in the sort of woman you have here. May I remind you that this is a training facility? Some of the men are young and impressionable." He straightened his cuffs. "If it should become known that they are being placed at grave risk of moral contamination, it's entirely possible that the general outcry would shut this place down."

Frank laughed. Pike and West stared at him; Jonson glared. "Why, Loren, that's not the only thing that might interest them." He deliberately took a drink and set the glass down on the desk. Jonson's eyes slitted in disapproval. "What do you think the House would make of your behavior tonight? Not to mention your constituency? It makes quite a story. Especially the end."

"You wouldn't dare." The smug look evaporated.

"Well, why not? I'm not in the Service and I'm not in office. I'm just a private citizen, who knows a lot of people." Frank crossed to the door and held it open. "You'd best stick to committee business, and let the Service handle its own. Good night, Loren." He waved the congressman through with an ironic bow and closed the door behind him.

"Blackmail, Frank?" West deadpanned, eyebrows raised.

Pike joined in, shaking his head gravely. "Moral contamination, indeed." They all laughed and the atmosphere lightened considerably. Settling into chairs with their glasses, they sat silent for several moments, enjoying the sudden release.

It had to end sometime. West was the first to stir. "Who invited the distinguished gentleman?"

Pike groaned and massaged the bridge of his nose. "I'll try to find out. We already know Weldon has someone inside who can steal a file and put it on your desk. Or it could just as easily be one of them on the outside. They certainly know she's here." He glanced sidelong at West. "Actually, I might have invited him, if I'd thought of it. Somebody was going to have to lean on her that hard, just to see how she'd react. I'm glad it wasn't me. Let her be mad at Congress for a change."

"So now she's been leaned on, what do you make of her?" West asked. _He knows it's part of the job, but he sure isn't happy about it._

"Quite a woman. Quite a chip on her shoulder. No, I don't blame her. We really got played. " Jeremy had said that more than once over the past few weeks, as they'd learned how badly the record had been falsified. Each time, he was angrier than the last. "We're going to have quite a job to do on her reputation, when this is over." He looked over at Jim. "It would help if she stopped brawling and swearing. Do you think you could do anything about that?"

"Don't look at me. She doesn't know me from Adam's off ox." Jim almost left it there, but couldn't resist. "Too bad we couldn't let her knock him down."

"Now you know what I've had to put up with." Frank yawned. "Too bad we can't get her elected."

Jeremy laughed, then sobered. "_Could_ she have knocked him down?"

"I don't know. She hasn't trained for a long time. I don't know if she's good, or just better than you expect." Jim shook his head. "Just don't grab her."

"What's that about?" Frank wondered. "Do you know?" _I hope it's not what I'm thinking._

"Nope." Jim answered the unspoken question. "Growing up 'the girl from the local house' was rough and there are more than a few stories about fights. But according to all accounts, she always won."

"Mm." Jeremy returned to the original topic. "She doesn't like us, but she doesn't like Weldon worse. You know, it's really possible she only came in because she promised. It sure wasn't for protection."

"Does that matter?" Frank asked. _He says that like it's a bad thing._

"It matters because she won't want to stay put. She's going to be hard to hang onto when she decides she wants to leave."

"Jerry, we hang onto hardened criminals who want to leave." Frank pointed out.

"By treating them like hardened criminals." West sounded wary.

"I won't rule that out, Jim. She's our responsibility now, whether she likes it or not. We have to protect her while we check out her story. "

"That's what you want me to hold back on. By the book, you said."

"I know. I'm sorry. I wish you could be involved." Pike looked frustrated. "People are going to claim we didn't do this right, that our judgment was bad. It'll have to be a ridiculously high standard. Checked and triple checked." He looked at his glass. "They don't know you. If I could put you on this, you'd kill yourself and her, making sure you were impartial. Well," he sighed and shook his head. "She has to stay somewhere while we do this. Do you think she'll be all right here for now?"

"Yeah, if Frank can keep the distinguished gentleman in line."

"It'll be a pleasure."

"Then it's settled." Pike stood. "I'll oversee the investigation. Jim, you keep her safe. Frank, you keep the Legislature off our necks."


	8. Chapter 8 - Ready Steady

Frank opened the office door and bowed Maggie inside, smiling at her reaction. West thought she looked well, finally; paler, but rested. The racking cough had slowly lessened and gone.

She was quartered in a guest room nearby. It was windowless, but well lit and well appointed. West sometimes used it himself, when he decided to work late. The main thing was, it was easy to guard against escape or attack. He stationed a man in the hall, morning and night, and spent his own nights on his office couch.

He had gone there the next day to explain what he could. She was unhappy, but willing to use the time to recuperate. _For now_. She slept as much as she wanted, read every book they could give her and suffered the ministrations of a dressmaker with patience and no small amusement. The young guards learned quickly that she was a terror at cards. Some took the news better than others.

Jerry gestured her to a chair and offered her a small whisky. She took it gingerly. "Celebration, or softening the blow?"

"Don't you know?" Pike was solemn.

Maggie gave him a comically dirty look. "I don't know nuthin'. And you've got the file full of reasons why."

"Well, know this." He raised his glass. "Your story checked out completely. You've been cleared." He tapped his glass against hers and waited for her to sip before he followed suit.

_She knows how to drink, but not to wait for the other guy_. Maggie nodded at the quality – _She'd better, that's my best stuff_ – and savored it, not too fast. "So what now?"

"We have dinner." West indicated a small table off to the side, set formally. "And we talk."

It was a good evening. He caught her up on everything that happened after she left Dogtown. Jian, Bart, Torrey (the new name took a little explaining), Alonzo and the people of both Grady's and The Queen's Arms had banded together in all-out rebellion against the Weldon gang. Even the priest got a few licks in. West had almost more allies than he could use and the situation was under control by the time the Secret Service arrived. Grady's was the only building lost. Sheriff Adams was found up at the mine, locked in the entrance and badly wounded, but he would live. The Weldons were gone.

Mira, safe at Vickie's, was in labor by morning. West ensconced her and Thomas in his hotel room and fetched the doctor at gunpoint. Terror-stricken, he treated her as if she were the governor's wife. Mother and daughter did heroically; Bart and Thomas were as proud as if they'd done it themselves. There were cheers and toasts that night at The Queen's Arms and business was land-office.

A few of Maggie's personal belongings had been saved, including the photograph, a precisely detailed notebook of beer formulae, a microscope, and a concertina, wrapped in a familiar tweed coat. The black bag, inside the icebox, also survived. West took the photograph, the coat and the bag. Torrey hung onto the notebook for 'safekeeping'. Thomas asked for a loan of the concertina and the microscope. "They're welcome to them." Maggie laughed. Máirtín and Proinsias helped the young family move back to the farm and were staying through the spring, at least. Maybe longer. There was plenty of work to go around.

Maggie tried to remember her tea party manners, but she was almost too excited to eat. It was good to see her face shine. Her laugh was unembarrassed; full throated and infectious. _A girl's school would have knocked that right out of her. Good thing she didn't go_. He only felt a little guilty at the thought.

Frank and Jerry were enjoying themselves, as well. It was Frank, finally, who asked it. "Your turn. How did Artemus and your mother meet?"

She spread her hands. "Well, I wasn't there – obviously – but I can tell you the family stories."

Artie had been around town for a few days, in his street preacher guise. "Hallelujah Harry's the name..." Collecting information, hiding in plain sight. _You couldn't miss him; everybody always knew he was there and nobody ever gave him a second look_. But he apparently trod on the wrong toe somehow.

"He came in the way a lot of people do. Did." Maggie looked at West. "Remember."

"Yeah."

"Somebody had done a real job on him. He wasn't expected to live. They got him into the back room and Ma just kept doing what she could. Strictly supportive care. I mean, it was all him. Even the old man called him one tough bugger." She made an apologetic face. "Quote, close quote."

"He was that."

"Anyway, the first time she cleaned him up, pieces started coming off. She couldn't believe it. Wig, nose, chin whiskers…At the end, she'd unearthed this…guy. Your friend. And then she went looking for any identification." She exhaled in a near whistle. "Boy, howdy, did she ever find identification! All you could want. All sorts. Whatever you're having, yourself.

Frank and Jerry smiled, despite the seriousness of the story. West didn't. "Goes with the job."

"I guess." She sounded dubious. "He kept going in and out, but the first time he remembered who he was supposed to be and started going into his act, she held up all the pieces. Then she spread the papers out like a deck of cards and said 'I just want to know, which one _are_ you?'" He kinda squinted and said 'Is there one in there that says Artemus Gordon?' She said yes, and he said 'That's the one.' And out he went again."

It took a while to be certain the injured man would recover. It took longer to make any sense of the situation. When Artie finally was coherent for more than a few minutes, he became upset about a device he'd left in his wagon. Patrick Grady retrieved the wagon and the device.

"He'd said it needed repair, so Ma worked on it while he was unconscious." She responded to their shocked looks. "Well, you wouldn't have wanted the old man working on it. Any time he had to fix something mechanical, it mostly involved a lot of cussing and kicking. But Mr. Gordon was real angry when he woke up."

"I don't think he was angry, I think he was frightened." West tried to sound gentle, but his chest was tight. "She could have blown up the whole neighborhood."

"Oh." A few seconds to digest that. "Well, she didn't. And she ended up fixing it anyway, under his direction. I s'pose it wouldn't've been a good idea to have somebody who was passing out every five minutes doing the hands-on part."

"You…could say that." The vise tightened a little more. _Silly – it's in the past. Nothing happened_.

"Once they got it fixed, she sent a telegram." Maggie made a face at West. "He _asked_ her to. Your people showed up to take the thing away, and he settled in to get well. They took the wagon and team, too. The old man was not pleased."

Artie did more than get well, of course. They spent hours talking, discovering a mutual love of Shakespeare, music and science; becoming friends and falling in love, all at the same time. Elizabeth taught him some Irish, he taught her a little Italian. At the same front, it turned out they had more than one battle in common. When he joked that getting wounded would have saved him a lot of time, she didn't laugh.

When it was time to leave, he proposed. "Ma didn't give me too many details, but she said he was very sweet. He couldn't take her along, 'cause it was dangerous, but he'd come back for her. There was a judge in from Oroville, so they got married up at the city office and stayed at the hotel." She shrugged. "The rest, you already know."

By unspoken mutual consent, they moved on to other topics. Maggie heard all about George Weldon, his crimes and his escape. After dinner, she accepted one more small whisky and started trading card tricks with Frank. They were working it up to a near vaudeville act when Jerry interrupted. "I'm afraid we still don't have a lead."

Maggie gathered the cards together and put them aside. Picking up her nearly full glass, she leaned back in her chair, suddenly serious. _She's been waiting for this all night. Waiting us out._

Jerry's eyes narrowed. "We have to decide what happens now. This is a Service operation, but I'm interested in your opinion."

"My opinion is, eventually I'm going to have to help you." She rushed ahead, forestalling West's objection. "This is why. Weldon's gone to ground, and he'll be perfectly happy to stay there for years, just like before. He's not coming out until he's ready. Not willingly." Her gaze scanned them all. "He was ready the last time, and I didn't like it one bit."

"So you want to make him come out before he's ready." Jerry nodded.

"So do you."

West objected anyway. "We don't need your help for that."

"Yes, you do. He could have come against you or me, singly, any time. Either one of us alone won't do. _We're_ the bait. Nothing else."

"We'll find another way." _There must be another way_.

"What other way? What haven't you tried already?" Maggie wasn't giving up. "Do you think I'm going to stay in that room forever?"

"It's too dangerous." West forced himself to sit, hiking his chair closer to hers. _Might as well give it to her straight. No pulled punches_. "You don't know what you're talking about. This is no job for amateurs. So far, you've been lucky, but you don't know what you're doing; you'd just get yourself killed and maybe take some of our best men with you. Forget it, Maggie, it's not going to happen."

Frank and Jerry looked worried that she might cry; West knew better. "Of course I don't know what I'm doing! You'll have to tell me. But if I'm the bait, than I just get hauled around like a sack of potatoes and left out a few places. Don't I? How much expertise do I need?"

"More than you think. It's not that easy."

"So tell me."

"No. There's no time."

It wasn't true, of course. Maggie knew it. "I have plenty of time - all the time in the world."

"No." They were leaning in toward each other again. _ Stalemate_.

Typically, Maggie leaned back first. West eyed her warily. _Change of tactics. What's it gonna be?_ "Okay. I'll give you this. I'll wait a little longer. If…" She seemed to have forgotten the other two men. "_If_ you spend the time teaching me what I might need to know."

"What?!"

She shrugged. "I have time. This is a teaching facility. So, teach."

"Absolutely not!" He rose and walked away, perilously close to losing control. _Every time. How does she do it?_

She wasn't done. "So I can't leave that room because I'm not ready, and you have no intention of helping me try to get ready. That about it?"

_Yeah. Yeah, that's about it_. West was tempted. Luckily, Frank took over. "Miss Gordon, you're not serious?"

"Well, I am." She turned towards the other two men. "God knows, I don't want any state secrets. And since I'm _not_ enlisting, I don't expect I'll need the whole program." She turned back to West again. "What could it hurt? If you're right and I'm wrong, congratulations and no harm done. But what if I'm right? I don't want to be the weak link, any more than you do. By the time you get around to making up your mind, it'll be too late."

"We'll think about it." Jerry was caught in a crossfire of outraged looks, but his tone stopped any further discussion dead. _For now_. "We haven't tried everything yet. I _will_ ask you to wait a little longer."

"How long?"

"I don't know." Jerry stood. "I won't ask for your word, and I won't ask for an answer right now. Just think about it; we'll talk again in a few days."

A few more stiff pleasantries and Frank escorted Maggie back to her quarters. When they were out of earshot, West turned to Pike. "You're stalling."

"You noticed." Jerry perched on the edge of the desk. "She has some interesting ideas."

"She's as crazy as he is!" It was outrageous, he knew, but it felt good to blow off a little steam.

"I'm not so sure. That was a pretty good assessment. She does know him."

"So do we. He's a killer." West dropped into his chair. "Jerry, she's just not up to this. For one thing, how are you going to get her to follow orders? She's not Army." He drummed his fingers on top of the deck of cards. "You'd have a better chance of getting a general to act like a buck private. At least, a general was a buck private once."

"Oh, she knows all about orders." Pike smiled wryly. "Problem is, she's been the one giving them since she was twelve. That's a hard habit to break."

"My point exactly." West stretched to reach his glass. "We can't afford a loose cannon."

"I know it." Jerry regarded West soberly. "But she might be the only chance we've got."

_I know it_. West mulishly resisted saying it. Jerry leaned against the desk, waiting. The silence and the tension were palpable.

"Hey, rube!" It was a bellow from down the hall, sharp and urgent. The two men looked at each other and ran.

Frank told the tale. He missed the guard; she didn't know that her room was to be watched even when she was away. It was Maggie who pointed out the dark transom over the door; she had left the light on. He remembered it, too. Something was very wrong.

He couldn't summon help without leaving the room unguarded. Nor did he dare risk sending Maggie back through the corridors alone. The door was not quite latched; waving her back, he kicked it open, half expecting a blast. When none came, he peered into the darkness. Reaching for the light switch, his hand brushed a wire and was sharply 'bit' by a strong current. Luckily, he hadn't grasped it and his momentum had prevented a prolonged contact. Nevertheless, he was shaken by its effect.

Still blocking the doorway, he told her to shout for help. She ran down the corridor just to the intersection, staying where she could see him, and yelled towards West's office.

Before long, the corridor was crowded. Frank was escorted, under some protest, to see the doctor. _Thank God, he's still on his feet_. They brought lights in and discovered the young guard – injured? Drugged? – dumped on Maggie's bed. He, too, was taken to the infirmary. Pike used West's telephone to summon specialists to examine and remove the wiring, as well as clear the room of any other devices.

Maggie wanted to get involved, particularly to care for Frank and the guard. West told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was to leave it to the experts. He expected her to be within arm's reach at any given moment. Shocked and grim, she obeyed. He supposed he felt the same way. It was hard to tell, under the anger. _Turf. This is my turf_.

Back in West's office, they waited as the reports trickled in. Frank returned from the infirmary, brushing off their concern. Pike sent him home anyway. Maggie, too restless to remain seated for long, finally snapped at them to stop rising whenever she did. "Save it for the Presidential Ball!"

"Why 'Hey, rube'?" West finally asked.

Maggie was fidgeting with the cards again. "Huh?"

"Why did you yell 'Hey, rube'?" he repeated. "Most people just yell 'Help'"

"Oh." She laid the cards down. "I don't know, we always said it. The old man said it. 'Help' means your…foot is stuck, or something. 'Hey, rube' means there's a fight on; you're under attack. Different kind of help."

Pike looked up. "He must have worked at a circus. Or a carnival."

"Really?" Her head cocked and her brows creased. "He was never clear about what he did before the war. I know it was with animals." She rubbed her eyes and leaned back. "Come to think of it, that would explain a few people."

"Didn't you wonder?" West asked.

"I dunno. I don't think so." She shrugged. "You got used to not knowing stuff. It was more important to keep the place running."

Pike stood. "I'm going to see how they're doing, then I'm going back to the office. Keep me advised." He walked over to Maggie and held out his hand. She extended hers for a handshake, but he clasped it gently instead. "It's going to be all right."

"Yeah." She sounded not at all certain. "Good night."

"Good night." And he was gone.

_Thanks for the vote of confidence_. West regarded her sourly. Her mood was obviously no better. She wandered the room, assessing the furniture, and started pulling the softer-looking chairs into a makeshift lounge.

He stopped her. "You sleep in there." The inner office had a small leather settee, hardly more than a loveseat. It had been responsible for a number of cricked necks and cramped legs lately, and the leather was surprisingly slippery when covered with a blanket. However, it was the best accommodation he had to offer, under the circumstances.

"Where are you going to sleep?"

"Out here." He opened the door. "Stay away from the windows. Keep the curtains drawn." She looked into the tiny room, then up at him. _Not now_. He resisted the urge to guide her by her shoulder. "Go on."

She didn't budge. "This isn't working."

His last nerve snapped and so did he. "Not now!"

"When?" Toe to toe again. "Next week? Next month? Couple of years? Forget it!" She spun on her heel and strode a few steps away. "Look, what have you got in mind, exactly? Come to that, what is your problem?"

"You are." His voice was more calm than he felt; he was almost too angry to shout. "How do you think you're going to help – by fighting us every step of the way? "

"One way or another, I'm not going to be your problem for long." Her voice was low, warning. "Your guys always said you people were planning to lock me up. I did think you were at least going to charge me with something first." Her chin lifted. "Charge me, help me or let me go."

_No_. "Maggie, I am helping you. I'm supposed to keep you safe."

"And a bang-up job you're doing, too." She closed her eyes and exhaled. "Okay, that's not fair. But the rest of it is."

"Like hell it is! Who do you think you are? You don't just decide you're going to be part of an operation. You don't give orders here."

"Yeah, 'cause that wouldn't be anything like you coming into my place, uninvited, and laying down the law."

"That's my job. You're not me. And you're not…" _Artie_. He stopped before it came out, but the unspoken name took them both aback.

Maggie recovered first. "Well, there's the pot calling the kettle. You're not him, either."

"Don't you think I know that?" West asked quietly. "If he were here, he'd want you taken care of. Not set out as a Judas goat."

"If he were here, I hope he'd treat me like he treated my mother. He didn't act like she was helpless or useless. Because she wasn't. Neither am I."

"Maggie." _Stalemate_. "Just go to bed. I have work to do."

Jaw set, she walked toward him and the inner office. At the door, she stopped. "If you need to come through in the middle of the night, come ahead. I'd rather you did that, than leave the office." For a concession, it was…defiant. "Seo dhuit."

He meant to hug her shoulders lightly, but she sensed his movement and turned to see what he intended. He found himself hugging her full on. It felt ridiculous. Awkward. They froze for a second – then he heard a muffled snort and Maggie's hand came up to pat his back. "God, we're so punch drunk."

It startled a laugh out of him, too. "Yeah." Unexpectedly, she was holding him for real, just for a moment. "You know, it _is_ going to be all right."

"Yeah, I know. I guess." She let go as suddenly as she'd held on. "You know, we're not done fighting yet."

"Yeah. I know." He released her. "Go on. Try to get some sleep." She went and the door closed. "You're gonna need it."

"So, how's she doing?" Jerry asked.

The next morning had come as a shock to her. On an unregulated schedule and with no work to do, she'd slipped into bartenders' hours – missing breakfast and staying up all hours, reading. The new reveille was not quite at dawn, but not far from it. Lights out was a completely new concept. Maggie was not a cheerful riser.

West brooked no argument about the limited curriculum and she didn't give him much. Telegraphy – ("Morse code?!" When he didn't respond, a shrug. "Morse code.") - was partly to see how she would handle something that seemed to make no sense. Lock picking was more practical, and filled a little extra time.

Physical training was by far the most important. The few female students were clerical staff rather than agents; they weren't expected to know more than the basics, and had their own class. Maggie walked in wearing her Chinese pajamas, instead of a skirt. Paul Musati, the instructor, tested her skills by inviting her to spar. The resulting display galvanized half the students and scared the rest.

"Her timing's way off, she's in terrible condition." Paul had shaken his head. "There was something there once. She's got a good sense of the mechanics. She can get it back with practice. But you know I haven't got time to give private lessons. She'll have to go in with the men."

It was just as polarizing as they knew it would be. _They're good men; in a social setting, they'd be as chivalrous as any courtier. But they don't want her here_.

She put her head down, worked hard and refused to let them get to her. West couldn't interfere. He ordered Charlie, who he'd assigned to escort her everywhere, to stay out of it as well. Paul watched, made sure the rules of the floor were observed, and reported regularly.

It didn't take long for things to come to a head. After individual exercises and a few forms, the students were to spar in pairs. Maggie found herself facing Gil Ross. West was aware of him as a promising young man, just out of the Army; bright, talented and a natural leader. He wouldn't be in the beginning class long.

As Paul told it, Ross took the direct route. He picked Maggie up off the ground, gave her a little shake and said "Why don't you stick to your knitting?"

"I wasn't in position to see exactly how she got loose." Paul shook his head. "But she dropped low, led from the floor and focused it about eight inches past his solar plexus. Then she came up, looked around and said 'Anybody else want to try that little maneuver?'" He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to laugh. "She was ready to take them all on. She'd have lost – but she'd have done it. She was spitting nails."

"They got to her."

"They got to her." He nodded. "Of course, she was done for the day. Deliberate excessive contact in a training exercise. Mr. Ross was out too, when he got his wind back."

The incident actually improved matters. The next day, Ross volunteered a stiff apology in front of the class. She apologized in turn for her loss of control. At the end of the session, he stayed back to talk to her. Charlie and Paul had both been there.

"It's nobody's business why I'm here, but there isn't a person in the building who doesn't know how I came in." she'd pointed out. "That's what I'm up against and I'm probably going to have to deal with them again sometime. If it helps, I'm a temporary nuisance. Large scheme of things, I'm not even going to slow you down."

"You can't just stay here?" Her look was answer enough. "I guess not. What do you want us to do?"

"There are other people in this class who are at my level. You _know_ there are." She was being direct, as always. Ross looked uncharacteristically confused. "Just pretend I'm one of them. There's no point in my learning to fight somebody who's going easy on me because of my sex. If they were going to do that, they wouldn't fight me to begin with."

"You're serious?"

"Yeah, I'm serious."

He took her at her word. From that point on, he pushed her, leaned on her, and drove her to improve. _He'd be a pretty good instructor himself, in a few years. When he's ready to settle down._ Most of the others followed his lead, especially as they saw how she responded. Some would never be able to make the adjustment.

It was one of the latter group, who accosted her at dinner one day. Maggie took breakfast and supper in her quarters, but she and Charlie had their midday meal with the other students. Charlie was talking to the men next to him and across the table; Maggie had excused herself to stick her nose in a borrowed medical journal.

Charlie said that Andrew Rufus and his table had been staring at them. _Nothing new there_. But Rufus said something to his circle, got up and approached to tower over her, deliberately too close. "What's a woman like you doing here?"

She was polite, but unimpressed. "Excuse me?"

"I will not." Pitching his voice loudly, he spoke to the room. "Are you men aware that this woman used to run a whorehouse?"

Gil, from several tables away, jumped to his feet. So did Charlie. Maggie put up a hand to keep them off. "Oh, dear." She also pitched her voice well, sounding mildly puzzled and a little amused. It reminded Charlie of one of his maiden aunts. "I'm afraid you're confusing me with my great uncle. _He_ ran a whorehouse. I owned a _saloon_." Casually, she ate another bite before she continued. "There's a difference."

The Rufus family were 'Drys', the patriarch was a temperance preacher. Baffled and frustrated by her lack of embarrassment, the belligerent student retreated to familiar ground. "That's just as bad!"

"And he went on like that for quite a while." Charlie reported. "The Sermon on the Mount had nothing on him. Except for coherence, eloquence, logic…Men were starting to laugh."

Finally, Rufus ran out of steam. "There's no difference between a saloon and a whorehouse. None whatsoever!" Maggie just watched him; polite, but a little bored. "What do you have to say to that?"

Wide-eyed, but still courteous. "Umm – stay away from my beer?"

That was the end of dinner. The room was in an uproar; Gil hit the floor, laughing. Rufus flushed dangerously, but had the good sense to leave. His other choice would have ended his career instantly. However, the temptation had been obvious.

"Director, I know his people are important, but I don't think he's going to cut it." Charlie was still worried, several days later. "If they'd been alone…And how would he ever be able to operate out in the field? Frankly, sir, he couldn't deal with sinners, let alone pretend to be one."

"We'll worry about that, Mr. Rosen. Thank you for your concern. Good night." Pike dismissed the aide gently. When the door closed, he leaned his eyes into his hand, shaking his head. "Jim, she can't say things like that. She just can't." His snort surprised even him and his hand slipped from his eyes to his mouth. Then he gave up and gave himself over to it. West was laughing just as hard. Finally, they calmed. "Jim…"

"To be fair, she didn't actually say anything." West pointed out.

"Jim, you have to do something. We're skating on thin ice as it is, teaching her to fight and pick locks. The distinguished gentleman thinks we're using her to cook and clean."

"What gave him that idea?"

"He suggested it to Frank, and Frank didn't say no. He didn't say yes, either." Pike hastened to add.

"What's a little indentured servitude between friends? Which side was Jonson on?" West asked sarcastically. "I know. He was in diapers." He grimaced. "I'll talk to her."

It was Sunday dinner, when he brought it up. The students were gone and staff was at a minimum, although Maggie's guards remained. _Two on and two off at all times._ The meal, brought in from a local restaurant, was nothing fancy, but made more formal with the addition of a little wine. West suspected it was the first time she'd been out of trousers all day.

"I know I should have resisted." Maggie looked to the heavens. "I tried, I really did. But he just had to ask that last question, and I…couldn't. I should have done." She flipped a hand over. "Well…"

"You should have." _Jerry's right, she can't do that. Even if it's hereditary_. "I need you to do better. If you had enlisted, it'd be different. But we're bending – we're _breaking_ the rules for you. Sooner or later, somebody's going to notice." _Sooner or later, they're not going to be able to ignore it_.

"Sooner or later, they're going to call you Fagin. Even if they think I'm already the Artful Dodger."

"Instead of Oliver Twist?"

Maggie winced. "Ohh, I don't think I'm _that_ good. We might have to find a new book. Maybe a dime novel." She held up her wine glass. "Please, sir, I want some more."

West laughed and divided the last of the bottle. "That's the end of it."

"Probably a good thing. Monday morning's rough enough as it is." She sipped. "I don't know how far I can keep my head down. Do you know how many people have investigated me over the years? I've seen at least two of them in the halls. I don't know if they're here on business, or if they just want to get a good look."

"Maybe a little of both." West admitted. _That could be how Rufus got his information_.

They were on the same track again. "You know, it's really pretty lucky, the way Mr. Rufus accused me. I can answer the 'running a whorehouse' question." She looked at him bleakly. "What do I do, the day somebody asks me about 'born in a whorehouse'? I mean, the fact is true. The implication isn't. And some people just aren't interested in nuances."

"You can't deck them, if that's what you're asking."

"It is." His look was all the answer needed. "Boy, you don't ask much, do you?"

"It might not come to that." he assured her. "You answered Mr. Rufus. That could be the end of it." _Or not_. Her look echoed his thought. "Can you manage it?"

"I don't know." _At least she's honest_. "I hope I don't have to find out."

_Change the subject_. "How do you think you're doing?"

"Okay, I guess. I don't have any basis for comparison." She smiled wryly. "I know I have a lot fewer classes than the men. But it gives me a chance to catch up. They started weeks before I did."

"How about training?"

Her grin said all that was necessary. "That's good. I mean, I know I've got a long way to go. But I don't think I've been in this kind of condition since…well, ever." She sipped her wine. "You know, Mr. Ross decided to take me seriously. That made a big difference. He's all right."

"You're friends?"

"I don't know. I s'pose." Suddenly, she straightened. "Oh, c'mon, West…Mr. West. Don't you think he's a little young for me?" West just watched her, expressionless. "Besides, I'd have to be some kind of crazy to be looking to mess about, when it's all I can do to stay alive."

West shrugged. "You get used to it."

"Don't tell me, I don't want to know!" She put a hand up dramatically.

He couldn't keep a straight face any longer. She broke up, too, when she realized she was being teased. _Partly_. "Good friendships can happen here. So can rumors."

"_Are_ there any rumors?"

"Not yet." _Not about that_.

"Well." She shook her head after a moment. "I'm a scandal. My being here is a scandal. I can't help it." She looked at him dead-on. "But if you ever hear about _that_ kind of scandal, they're making it up. I wouldn't do that to you or your students."

"Okay." She snickered to herself. "What?"

"Five'll get you ten that the people who expect me to be Caesar's wife are the same people who got me into this mess to begin with. And I'd bet large sums of money that they're nothing of the sort, themselves."

"I couldn't say." _The damsel in distress is…a bartender._ He changed the subject again, before she could respond. "Is there anything we can do for you this week?" It was always the last topic of Sunday dinner. She seldom asked for much – proper clothes for training, a chance to brush up her marksmanship. The photograph of Grady's for her room – the original. By now, there were several copies. West had one of his own.

"The usual. I'd like to know what's going on and what to expect." She shot him a look. "Barring that, I wonder if I could talk to your…I don't know, Department of Disguises?" She set down her empty glass. "You do have a Department of Disguises, don't you? I've got a question for them."

"What is it?" _And do I want to know_?

"Can they get my hair back to its normal color? 'Cause otherwise, I'm going to have to shave my head and get a wig. I'm starting to look truly odd."


	9. Chapter 9 - Go

"Come in." West called, too buried in paperwork to get up and answer his office door. The stenographer had left an hour ago and he hadn't seen Charlie Rosen since early morning. _Hard to stay caught up without an aide. Stupid reports, they never end_.

The head that poked around the door belonged to the eventual recipient of those very reports. West made as if to get up, but Pike waved him back. "Sit down, this isn't official."

Something in his demeanor put West on his guard. "What can I do for you, Director?"

"Never could lie to you, Jim." Pike crossed to look out the window. "This _isn't_ official. That comes later."

"What?" Something in West's chest turned over.

"I need to see Maggie. I need to see for myself how she's doing."

West stood. "Come on."

Down on the floor, class was three quarters over. The trainees finished an exercise and paired off to spar. Maggie and her partner were opposite the viewing gallery, nearest the far wall. The man came on strong; Maggie dodged, ducked, and connected with his left kidney. _Just hard enough to raise dust_. She attacked, blocking a blow to her head, but not avoiding a punch to the ribs in time.

Pike looked alarmed. "Don't you think he's being too rough on her?"

"No." It continued, artificially limited only by the mutually controlled contact and by the need to stay in one's own area, not encroaching on the next pair. Otherwise, there were no restrictions. There was nothing unusual or interesting about it, compared to any other contest on the floor. The only remarkable thing was that no one else paid the slightest attention. Mr. Musati roamed the floor, watching and advising, but didn't linger in Maggie's vicinity.

Finally the man applied a series of moves that ended with Maggie hitting the ground with some force. She laughed and came right back up again. West and Pike couldn't hear, but the gist was obvious. '_Okay, what was that? Show me_.' The man obliged, and she worked through it twice slowly. Then she tried it full-speed. He tried to counter at the end, but she stepped behind his leg and cross-armed him into a loss of balance, grabbing his arm at the last. '_Oh, no, you don't_.'

Mr. Musati called the class to order and they went into their cool-down exercises. West and Pike left the gallery and went back to the office.

"I hear her marksmanship's all right. Either hand?"

"They thought she'd be crippled on the right after the Battle of Grady's, so she started working her left." West shrugged. "She doesn't need the sawed-off, but a scattergun scares people."

"Scares me. The rest of her classes? Any more trouble?"

"Fine and no." He waited, trying to ignore the lurch in his midsection.

"I want you both in my office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll send a car at eight." Pike looked wary of West's reaction. "Unofficially, you'd better wrap up any loose ends here, if you can. The trail's ice cold, we're out of options, and the Senate Surveillance and Operations Committee is starting to ask some very awkward questions."

_Damn._

"It couldn't last forever." Pike was on his feet in front of his desk. West and Maggie sat side by side like truant children. There was no whiskey, coffee or tea – this was business, not a social occasion. And Pike was in full official mode. "One way or another, you're done with school, Miss Gordon. What happens next is up to you."

"What are my choices, Director?" No sarcasm; a serious question.

"You can go into protective custody for the duration. Much like now, but in a different location. No classes, but we'd find something for you to do."

"With respect, sir, that sounds terrible." West looked away to hide his expression. _Not a chance._

It wasn't lost on Pike, but he continued. "It wouldn't be that bad."

"And the alternative?"

"You convince me you can be trusted." Pike held up a hand. "Hear me out, Miss Gordon. The most dangerous time for an agent, and for anybody working with him, is when he's just finished training. You haven't even begun training, not really. Putting you in the field is a huge risk to begin with. And then there's your background." He waited for an objection, but she kept her silence. "Rather, your lack of background. Nearly all of our men served. They're disciplined, they obey orders; if I assign them a job, I can rely on them to do it, and to not go off on their own. If the senior agent puts them in a position, they stay there. You've been a law unto yourself, your whole life. I can't afford that."

He paused. "You haven't enlisted; you've made that quite clear. But if I send you out, you need to work exactly as if you had, and you need to recognize your limits. You will be the most subordinate member of the team, subject to any and all orders. If any agent – _any_ agent - has the slightest feeling that he can't rely on you, we will shut it down and have you back here before you can blink. Do I make myself understood, Miss Gordon?" He regarded her. "Convince me."

"You do." Maggie colored slightly, but matched his tone. "With regard to my training, it sounds like medicine. You start out thinking you know something, and it takes years to learn what you don't know. People's lives depend on it and you have to get it right. I think I can recognize my limits." Pike raised an eyebrow. "I can recognize my limits. As to the other, I agree to follow orders."

"I need more than your agreement. I need your word."

She inclined her head. "You have my word."

He turned to West. "Jim, you'll be the senior agent on this. Your operation, your responsibility. Can you work with her? Can she do it?"

_All I have to do is say no. She'll never forgive me, she'll hate me til the end of her days, but she'll be alive, safe. It's so easy – just lie. 'No'._ "Yes."

It was almost worth it to see Maggie gobsmacked, for once. As soon as Pike had put the question to him, she'd resigned herself – and likely begun thinking of what to do next. _We hang on to hardened criminals who want to leave_. His answer snapped her back to attention. After several seconds, she closed her mouth and swallowed hard, looking at Pike as if to see if he'd heard it too.

He had. "All right, you're on. The cover is that we're sending you back to Magalia to tell us about some installations we've found in the house and mine. We've no reason to think he's still in the area, but he'll know you're on the move; he may follow you there. Your bags are already on the train."

"We get the train?" "I have bags?" West and Maggie spoke simultaneously.

"The train is still the best way to keep civilians out of it. We're sending you out to be attacked; I don't need a running gun battle up and down the aisle of a Pullman car." Pike spoke with some asperity. "And of course you have bags, Miss Gordon. Did you think we'd send you out of here with nothing but the clothes on your back? You'll be prepared for any eventuality."

He took papers and a map off the desk and pulled over a field table. "This is a list of recent munitions thefts and attempted thefts. We don't know if Weldon is involved in all, or any of them. But there's been a definite increase lately. Here, here, and here…"

West sat in the parlor of the varnish car, trying to concentrate on his book. Maggie was by the open window, enjoying the view and the breeze. It was a luxury, allowed only when the train was in full flight. Four other agents, in their own car, were playing poker, most of them shirtless. West envied them; his own shirt was wringing wet. _Not that she'd care – but it wouldn't look right_.

That morning, he'd found her in the galley. It was like a blast furnace, and he'd said so.

"If you want cold food for later, somebody's got to make it hot now. Unless you're fond of raw chicken."

"The men say you're not allowing them in here"

"Of course not. Look at me."

He did. "Maggie, women wear less than that to dances."

_Still not a cheerful riser_. And the heat wasn't improving her mood. "I wouldn't know. It's been ages since my last coming-out party."

He couldn't resist. "Do you come out often?"

"I'm going to be 'coming out' in about five more minutes if it gets any hotter in here. Buail an bóthar." A jerked thumb translated. _Hit the road_.

Well, the chicken was good. She'd made enough for several meals, and even if the heat didn't break soon, they'd be turning north for Dogtown and cooler weather as soon as they crossed the mountains. It wasn't the most direct route, but they were stopping at forts and military depots along the way, inspecting munitions dumps that had reported thefts or suspicious activity. Whether or not they found any new information, they certainly were making their presence known.

West lowered the book and considered his own mood. The train was both familiar and different, updated through the years. He missed the pigeons. _Never thought I'd say that. Pigeons. I'd rather clean the stable car_. His room felt like coming home. But installing Maggie in Artie's room was…difficult. It felt wrong, somehow.

_We had female guests_. They'd never gotten on his nerves, although he and Artie had joked about all the attention to dress and hair. If anything, Maggie could take a little more interest in those subjects. He'd gone to watch her unpack and found her inspecting a dress quizzically.

"We can keep civilians out of it, or we can go to the opera, but I don't see how we can do both."

He looked. "Maggie, that's a day dress. A simple day dress."

"Oh." She put it away in the wardrobe. "I guess I should have kept Ma's subscription to Godey's."

"Godey's is out of print."

"Really?" She picked up the next item, turning it as if she wasn't even sure what it was for. "I guess I'm more of a Popular Mechanics kind of girl."

Since then, he hadn't seen her in anything but a skirt and shirtwaist. _Except for camisole and petticoat in the galley_. Touring the depots with him, posing as his secretary, she added a short jacket to help disguise the impermeable she wore underneath. Heat stroke was less of a risk than attack, and both were less of a risk than leaving her behind on the train. The short hair was explained as the result of an illness.

She certainly was no Rosa Montebello, a name which had caused Artie to shudder for months. Maggie needed no entertaining; practically no attention at all. He'd expected quite the opposite. Grown up in the chaos of Grady's, never alone, he'd assumed she'd want a lot of activity. Instead, he was becoming aware that she'd learned to carry her privacy inside her, and that she could stay deep within it for hours or days, coming up only when she had to.

At the moment, Miss Popular Mechanics was practicing her lock picking. The two club chairs by the window were pulled to face each other; she leaned back in one and propped her feet on the other, holding a lock against her legs. It was far from ladylike, especially as she slumped downwards, concentrating.

"Would you rather I do this in my room?"

Caught. "No, you're fine." He waved a hand, trying to reassure her. _She knows. If she knows why, I wish she'd explain it to me_. Artie was more social, but he'd had his introspective moments. He was an actor –it went with the territory_._ Frank and Jeremy had been easy enough to adjust to. Even the few days with Bosley Cranston were...well, maybe not_. Why are my nerves so lacerated? _

"Time for a siesta." Maggie had solved the latest puzzle. West watched her go, noticing that she was taking the locks with her. _Siesta, my ass_. She was giving up the window to avoid him. Or to stop annoying him. Either way, he resented it.

_It must be the heat_. She followed orders, gave no arguments. He'd expected one when he assigned her to the galley. She'd pointed out instead that unless one of the men was experienced in running a restaurant, she was the logical candidate. He hadn't missed her longing looks toward the rolling poker game, but she stayed in their car as he'd ordered. Jeans and a divided riding skirt were included in her wardrobe, but the only trousers she wore belonged to the pajamas she used at night. A lawn-and-lace nightgown stayed in the wardrobe, next to the day dress.

She set supper out as a picnic buffet that evening, just at twilight. The dusk brought a slight drop in temperature; not much, but enough. The men, agents and crew, hit the table like a happy swarm of locusts. Then, laughing and joking, they were gone, back to their respective cars.

"You're not eating?" Maggie dolloped exactly half the remaining potato salad onto her plate and dropped a piece of chicken beside it. West shook his head. "Ok, I'll clear. But it'll be in the icebox if you change your mind."

It took a few trips. On the last one, she picked up the chicken and looked at him, brow furrowed. West snapped. "I can take care of myself, Miss Gordon."

Her brow lifted and she jerked straighter. "I look forward to it." She grabbed her own plate and headed for the galley. At the door, she turned. "Sir." Hands full, she was incapable of slamming it, but her tone of voice made that unnecessary.

After a long moment, West took his face out of his hands and followed her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." She waved it off. "I shouldn't have lost my temper, either."

"This isn't working."

"I know." She sighed. "Problem is, there's just no way around our being in the same place at the same time right now. If it helps, it can't last forever."

"What will you do then?"

"Get a job. I don't suppose they'll let me be a doctor, but I'd make a good nurse. I just need to find a hospital that'll overlook that little moral turpitude thing."

Another flare of exasperation. "Lady, you have one hell of a sense of humor."

"It's gotten me this far." She smiled ruefully, picked up her plate and patted his arm with her free hand. "This, too, shall pass. I'll try to keep it from being too much like a kidney stone. Sir." She ducked around him and plodded down the passage to her room. He watched her door gently close.

_How do I fix this?_

Back in the parlor, he flopped onto the settee. It was unreasonable, he knew, to expect a relationship – they hardly knew each other. _Adam's off ox. If you drive her away, she'll go_.

The thought was in Artie's voice. It wasn't the first time. The voice sometimes came when he needed to debate something difficult. West remembered the time Loveless had drugged him and he'd imagined a long series of interactions with Artie. He'd even killed his friend in the drug-induced fantasy, although the real Artie had been miles away. Afterwards, it took a long time, and a stalled train, to get around to talking it out.

"So, what was this Artie like?"

"Why, what difference does it make?"

Artie had grinned. "Well, he was the Artie in your head. The way you see me. I've got to be curious."

"I don't know. He was…you." The train had finally jolted into movement. _Off the hook. New Orleans. Wine, women and some off-key harmonizing._ He'd thrown himself into that layover with even more energy than usual.

_What do I do? Charm? Tried it. Authority? Tried it. Can't treat her like a child, can't treat her like a woman. God, no._

_What does she want? _The voice was persistent._ What does she need, what does she like, what does she do?_

_She learns._

_So, teach._

_I'll get her killed, if I let her in._

_You'll get her killed if you don't. You know, Jerry asked two questions – whether she can act like an agent, and whether you can work with her, If you can't treat her like an agent, the men won't either. That's dangerous._

_And when it's all over? If she lives?_

_Maybe the answer is to treat her like a friend._

_I'm the senior agent. It's not my job to be her friend._

_You were the senior agent on our assignments. _

"Shut up." Imaginary Artie had him there. _Sad, when you can't win an argument with yourself. Good thing I'm just talking to myself – otherwise, I'd be crazy._

_Ri-ght._

Next morning over breakfast, he held a briefing in the parlor of the varnish car. The last stop before turning north was to be Fort Huachuca. A map of the fort, and another of its surroundings, leaned against the wall over the mantel.

"Three weeks ago, there was a series of small skirmishes against civilians in this area."

"Indians?' Gilford asked. "Another Crazy Snake?"

"They thought so at the time, but it seems unlikely now. The civilians complained to the territorial governor that Major Allen sent only a few troops to investigate." West paused. "Before he could answer, raiders attacked the arsenal. It held."

"A diversion. Meant to leave the arsenal unguarded." That was Sloyan.

West nodded. "Precisely."

"Do we think they're still in the area, Sir?" Lieutenant Anthony put in.

"Possibly, not necessarily this side of the border. Keep your eyes open, gentlemen. And lady." West nodded to Maggie, quiet in the back of the small group. "Just another routine tour, but don't jump to any conclusions or take any chances. I'm not ruling out Weldon, an inside job, bandits, or any combination thereof. Remember, bandits like hostages." He stood. "We'll turn off onto the branch line in an hour. Dismissed."

The men drifted off, stopping by the maps to discuss the finer points of layout, geography, strategy. Maggie eavesdropped openly, rubbernecking a little as she walked past, gathering plates.

"Miss Gordon." Maggie turned. "Leave those. We'll get them later. I want you to help me go through these reports."

"Yes, sir." They cleared the table surface and West spread out the papers – one pile for each location, each event. "What are we looking for?"

"Connections. Similarities. Patterns. And of course, anyone or anything that sounds familiar to you."

They settled in, shuffling papers, trading stacks. Maggie didn't find anything he hadn't already noticed, but watching her suddenly reach for one report to compare it against another reaffirmed some of his own observations.

"This is the only casualty that was left behind? Ever?" She had been studying a death photograph for several minutes.

"Yes. Do you recognize him?"

"I don't think so. But isn't that unusual?"

"There haven't been many casualties." There had been only a few outright assaults like the one on Fort Huachuca. Most of the thefts and foiled attempts were break-ins, burglaries. One commander reported, red-faced, that he had no idea exactly when a case of grenades had gone missing.

"Still, there've been more than one. Aren't they being awfully…tidy?"

"What's your point, Miss Gordon?"

She propped her chin on a fist, brow wrinkled. "Well, if it's as unusual as I think it is, that does argue for a lot of these being by the same people." Her palm flipped upwards. "You wanted patterns, it's a pattern. Doesn't sound much like Weldon, though."

"Yeah." _I can understand them taking the wounded, but why the dead?_ "How many are we talking about?"

"At least five or six either dead or too hurt to travel. I'm not counting minor casualties right now."

Before West could respond, the telegraph rattled into life. He sprang to his feet, then gestured Maggie over to it. Owl-eyed, she rushed to grab a pad of paper and pencil. Tapping a brief response, she scribbled until the message was done and signed off. Correcting a few mistaken words, she handed it to West.

He already knew what it said. They looked at each other silently, hearing the other agents come scrambling through the car.

West held up a hand as they poured into the parlor. "You heard it. The branch line is damaged. Mr. Anthony, tell the crew we'll lay over at the turnoff. The fort is sending an escort. Gilford, Verant, make sure the automobile is ready and unload it when we're stopped. Mr. Sloyan, Mr. Anthony, you know what to do. Get ready, gentlemen, it's almost showtime."

The men scattered to their assigned places. West turned to Maggie. "You know your job?"

"First sign of trouble, get in the compartment and stay there until I hear a direct order from one of you."

"Right. The only exception is an emergency, such as the car catching fire." _Can she do it? Will she do it?_

"The girl hid in the burning car, whence all but she had fled." Maggie declaimed. "The flame that lit the – wait a minute, what rhymes with car?"

"That's not funny."

"Well, it is." Maggie cleared the dishes. "Whaddaya want, 'O Captain, my Captain'?"

"No." He grabbed two stray cups and followed her into the galley.

"Yeah, I guess not. Sam McGee?"

"Go put your vest on."

"Yes, sir." She padded down the passageway to her room. At the door, she looked back at his scowl. Unexpectedly, she said just one word. "Maude."

Impossible to glare and laugh at the same time, although he tried. She grinned and disappeared where he could not follow.

_Time to get ready_.

Nearly an hour later, they were finally underway. The route was dictated by the use of the car and West felt far more vulnerable than he would have on a horse. The limousine was specially designed, of course – bullet-proof, for one thing, although that meant mayhem should a bullet ever find its way inside. Behind the open driver's seat, two plush benches faced each other; beneath each was a hidden box as impregnable as any safe, once latched from the inside. The floors were trap doors, worked by lever and springs. There were other devices, of course, scattered throughout the car. West had personally trained Maggie in the use of them all and they had both tested the compartments for size and operation.

Coming in from north-northeast, at least the terrain was fairly flat with good visibility. The smoothest route paralleled the tracks, although to call it a road was hyperbole at best. Their escort rode before and behind.

Lieutenant Burseth, the leader, dropped back to look in the open window. "We're turning to detour around the damaged area, sir."

"I'd like to see it, Lieutenant."

"I'm afraid your car won't manage the rough ground, sir. Perhaps we can lend you a horse, once we get to the fort."

"Of course." West waved him on and leaned to watch him direct his men. "Maggie, get in the box."

Without a word, and with only one eloquent look, she obeyed. He heard the latches snick as he knelt on the cushion to rap on the front window in a prearranged signal. Then he disappeared under his own seat.

Darkness. The vibration and sound of a flare being fired, although West knew he wouldn't be able to hear its explosion a few seconds later. The car jerked to a stop, amid shouts. The car door opened and the floor rocked with the added weight of a man. "What the…Where are they?"

Banging on the walls, floor and seats. More rocking as the man disembarked, and angry voices. Then came the sound West dreaded – a single shot. Verant, the driver, was to surrender, and West knew he would have obeyed. _Body shot – Please God, let it be a body shot_.

It was the most dangerous position and Verant had all but insisted that it be his. Maggie had questioned – privately – whether it was sane to permit it.

"He'll be wearing a vest, like the rest of us. It's not likely to be a head shot; not if they want to take the car for themselves. He's to play dead and join us when it's safe." _Safer_.

The second door opened, with more movement. West suspected that a man was now standing in each doorway. Suddenly there was a blaze of gunfire, the sharp ping of ricochets off the seats, assaulting his ears, deafening him. Shouts and screams._ They're down two men. At least. Three to go._

More gunfire, not in the compartment. That would be Anthony, Gilford and Sloyan riding in. West waited for them to get closer, then pulled the lever and hit the ground hard. The raiders were using the car as cover. Maggie's trap door was still sealed.

One of the men was under the car, behind a wheel, shooting at the new arrivals. West dropped nearly on top of him. Startled from behind, he was too slow; West shot him and kicked his gun away, out of reach. He counted feet. _Two left_.

Burseth was yelling orders. Getting no response from under the car, he crouched to look cross-eyed into the muzzle of West's gun. "Drop it. Stand down. Call off your man." He obeyed.

The three agents rode up, guns drawn, and took charge. Verant sat up. "Worked like a charm, sir."

_Whew_. West crawled out and climbed up into the car. "Come out, Miss Gor…"

Maggie's compartment opened and he found himself looking into the muzzle of her gun. As soon as she saw him, she put it up and away. "Yes, sir." Her skirt gave her trouble and he had to turn towards the door so she could free herself. "I think I've found a design flaw."

"We'll look into it. In the meantime, here comes the real cavalry." Attracted by the flare, they were riding out from the fort to investigate.

Identifications and explanations. The prisoners who could ride used their own horses. The wounded and dead were loaded into the limousine. The question of how to transport Maggie was settled when she volunteered to drive; West sat beside her, wishing he had taken one of the extra horses, like Verant.

"I think that's the first time you've drawn on me. You do remember you can't fire a gun in there. Right?"

"Five rounds." An empty first chamber meant that a gun wouldn't discharge accidently, at least not easily. Only a second to click through to a loaded chamber. "I couldn't hear you very well. That's the flaw. Anyway, if I'd had to shoot, I'd have put it in the body. Couldn't miss at that range."

"Mmph." _Still_…He gave up and surveyed their surroundings. _They were taking us somewhere – somewhere in that direction._ It would have to be very far off indeed, for the gun battle not to have sounded the alarm. _No use now, too late_.

The track was undamaged and the fort was eager to see them. Major Allen's troops, together with West's agents, eventually returned to report the spot where the telegraph line had been breached. An abandoned homestead, empty but with evidence of recent occupants, seemed to have been their intended destination.

The prisoners weren't talking, except to spout some half-baked political philosophy. It had nothing in common with Weldon's real beliefs, but they were startled enough by the mention of his name to make it clear who their leader was. They refused to accept that they had been tricked, used and discarded. _They think he's coming back for them. I wonder how long it'll take for them to figure it out_.

They returned to the train well after dark. Even following the tracks, it was tortuously slow going. Finally back in the parlor, Maggie collapsed onto the settee and yawned ferociously. "You know what I miss? Beer. This would be a really good night for a cold beer."

"Yeah." West settled himself more gingerly on the other settee and smiled across the carved backs. "You'd be asleep in three minutes."

"So?" She smiled back. "Don't need a beer for that. It's hard work, being a sack of potatoes."

"Go to bed."

"Mmm." She closed her eyes and he thought for a minute that she would sleep where she was. Then she roused. "Okay. G'night. You need anything?"

"Nah. Good night, Spud."

A quarter hour later, the train jolted into movement. When they were back on the main line and well underway, West headed for his room. _Darkness, my own bed and long dreams of cold beer_.

Darkness, explosions and the scream of abused brakes. West was on his feet before he was completely awake. His pistol was close at hand and he bolted for the hallway, staggering as the train came to a sudden stop. _Not derailed, but we hit something_. Finding a window, it was impossible to tell exactly where they were, but he knew he'd slept for several hours.

Maggie had her own instructions. West rushed forward to the next car, toward the younger agents. Opening the door, he heard the click of guns and felt a cold ring of metal against his forehead.

"Come in." Weldon's voice was as cold as the gun barrel.

He obeyed slowly. His agents looked sheepish and angry, surprised and overpowered by half again their numbers. The engine crew stumbled in, pushed by two more raiders. Finally, Maggie entered behind him, prodded by a rifle. Catching his eye, she shook her head, almost imperceptibly. _She couldn't make it_.

Ben brought up the rear. The months had been rough on him. Rougher on his father. The senior Weldon looked ten years older, gaunt and unkempt; no longer the would-be aristocrat. Only the hatred in his eyes was the same.

No point in asking what he wanted. West watched Weldon's men ransack the car for weapons and valuables. When they started to move back towards the last car, Weldon spoke again. "Leave that. It's mine."

"Whaddaya mean, yours?" One of the men spoke over the hubbub of protest. "That's not how we planned it."

"I don't give a damn." Weldon snapped. "Get these men secured. Kill them if they give you any trouble. Keep the engine crew alive enough to work. You four – bring West and the girl." He turned on his heel and strode out.

The man who had spoken seemed to be a leader of sorts. He scowled, motioned one of the four chosen men to stay behind, and took his place. The rest of the gang glared daggers towards Weldon's back, but obeyed. Prodded back to the parlor, West kept Maggie close. Ben brought up the rear, as usual.

In the parlor, Weldon made a brief circle of the room. "I'm going to like it here. Not what I'm used to, of course. Not quality. But I can make it do."

"Make it do what?" the raider objected. "We strip it, we burn it, we hold the men for ransom. Anything we can't use, we sell. Revolution don't come cheap, you said so yourself. You know how much we could get for these two?"

"Idiot." The man flushed dangerously, but Weldon didn't notice or care. "The government isn't going to pay tavern sweepings like you for hostages. And these two aren't for sale. They're mine."

"Fine. We'll kill the men. But if you think you're going to waste a perfectly good woman, you got another think comin'. We can use her."

Weldon smiled unpleasantly. "You think so?" He strolled to the fireplace, where West and Maggie stood at gunpoint. Shoving West forward a little, he stood behind, putting a pistol to West's head. "Go ahead. Take her."

The raider hesitated, then seized Maggie by the arm and dragged her forward. She stumbled into him, looking terrified – then exploded. Her fingers gouged at his eyes; as he roared and bent, her elbow snapped upwards to crack into his jaw. Her knee came up hard enough to lift him and her free hand groped backwards to find a heavy bookend. Eyes streaming, clutching at his face and groin, he never saw it coming.

A second man wrapped her in a bear hug from behind, one arm over her shoulder and down across her body. Her opposite arm came up to trap it there and her free arm snaked up to grab his clothing at the neck. She dropped violently onto one knee and bent her forehead nearly to the ground; his own weight overbalanced him into a somersault. A full-force elbow drop onto his throat finished him.

She came up with his gun in her hand. West couldn't make out what she yelled, but he could guess. "Duck!" He ducked, striking Weldon's gun hand up and away. Her shot missed him by inches and smashed through Weldon's shoulder.

A third man barreled into her. The fourth danced around, trying to get a clear line of fire. West tackled him onto the settees, one hand pounding his head into the carved wood, the other pinning his gun hand. The man went limp beneath him, the gun falling over the back to the floor. West caught movement in his peripheral vision and shied just in time for the other bookend to miss his skull, glancing painfully off his arm. His foot lashed out and caught Ben in the gut.

_As many guns as there are in this room, how can there not be one within reach?_ He dove for Weldon's, but the old man sent it skidding across the floor. It bounced off the wall near Maggie, but she was busy. Leaned against the fireplace and gripping his useless arm, Weldon kicked again, this time at West's head. West rolled away and scrambled towards another loose gun, but Ben dropped on top of him. Powerful hands wrapped around his throat from behind.

Ben's extended arms kept him out of reach. West managed to lift his body enough to get one foot under him and flip them both over onto Ben's back. Within reach now, West encouraged him to let go.

_Ben and Maggie's opponent left._ Maggie's opponent was large, angry, and now on his guard. Maggie was having trouble. He had knocked her to the ground against the wall and drew his boot back to drive it into her. She grabbed his foot and twisted, but that brought him down. Nowhere for her to roll; he fell knee first onto her side.

West launched himself at them. Dragging the man off, he commenced a slogging assault that drove them back across the room. When the opponent was finished, West sprang to his feet – only to see Ben, pistol in hand. It pointed straight at Maggie's head. "Stop it!"

"All right." West raised his hands. "All right, I've stopped. What do you want?"

"Kill them!" Weldon growled. "Kill them now."

Ben brought the gun around to West. He looked from West to his father, then back to West. "What do you mean, what do I want?"

"What do you want?" West repeated. "You're the only one with a gun right now. It's your decision. Nobody else's."

"Shoot them!" Weldon insisted.

Ben was enjoying this new feeling. The gun swung between West and Maggie, playing a little too obviously over his father. "I could, couldn't I? Maybe I will – and maybe I won't."

"You stupid little bastard!"

"Don't call me that!" Ben snapped, swiveling the gun to point at his tormenter. "I'm sick of it."

"You're sick of it, boy? Get used to it – it's what you are."

"What?" Enjoyment, to anger, to confusion - but the gun was still pointed at Weldon.

"Ben." Maggie spoke from the floor. By the way she held her eyes, West knew she was in pain. _Shut up, Maggie_. "When he married your ma, he wasn't using his right name."

It took too long, but the meaning finally sunk in. "Pa?" No answer. "Maggie, you knew?"

She shook her head, closing her eyes. "I didn't know he had a different name. I just found out a little while ago. You know when. You were there."

"Pa?" Ben repeated. "You said we were quality. You said we were better."

"I said I was." Weldon gritted out, gripping his shoulder tighter. "Not you. You're your mother's son." The wave of pain passed and he breathed again. "Oh, I sired you, no doubt about that. She didn't have enough blood in her to take a lover. Even if she'd had the chance."

"Is that why you killed her?" West asked.

_Mistake_. "Shut up!" Ben brought the gun to bear on him, cocking it ominously. "Stop saying that. Don't ever say that again."

"Ben." _Shut up, Maggie_.

"You don't believe it, do you, Maggie?" Ben sounded suddenly younger.

"You're asking me? I was a baby. You need to ask your pa." Her voice was calm, gentle. "Ask _him_ to explain what happened. You can, you know."

"Explain what?" Ben looked confused again, the gun drifting aimlessly. _Too far away to rush him, even if the furniture wasn't in the way_. The nearest loose gun was under the club chair by the window. _I'd never make it, not without a distraction. But if I can get closer._ He began inching, just a shift at a time. Maggie's chin dipped slightly once.

"You shut your mouth!" Weldon roared. Ben jumped and his aim returned to focus on his father.

"How did your father say she died?"

"She was out walking and fell off a ledge." Ben repeated it, as if by rote.

"Well, do you remember? You might have been old enough. Everybody says she was never allowed to go out alone. Was she?" Ben struggled to work it through. West held his breath, inching. "And she was supposed to be working all the time. Whenever he saw her – and he never had his eyes off her. Did she ever go for walks, even with somebody along? Do you remember?"

Weldon was silent, panting. Maggie continued. "And everybody who knew her, even when she was a little girl, said she was scared of heights. Couldn't get up on a chair, let alone a ladder. She got dizzy, they said. Was it true? Do you remember?" The gun was drifting again; Ben was blank-faced, lost in thought. "Well, maybe you don't remember. You were pretty young. But you can ask your pa."

"I remember." Ben said suddenly. "I remember. There was a toy. On top of the armoire. I was crying, I wanted it. Ma wanted me to have it, but the housekeeper was in town and Ma couldn't get it down." He looked at his father. "She couldn't. It was too high."

"Shut up, boy!"

"You killed her!" The gun came back to Weldon, Ben's arm high and fully extended. "You did. You killed Ma."

"Of course I killed her, you stupid fool. She was in my way."

It struck Ben as if his father had backhanded him, and he began to cry. Cursing viciously, the old man used his good arm to push himself away from the mantel, toward his son.

The gun went off. Weldon crashed backwards and fell in a clatter of screen and andiron. West dove for the chair and came up with the gun. Maggie suddenly had a gun of her own. _Weldon's. She was laying on it_.

"Ben." Maggie's insistent voice pulled the younger man out of his daze. A little. He still held the gun, staring at his father's body. "Benny, it's over. Put the gun down. Please."

"Over?"

"Yeah, it's over. You can stop now." Her voice was still gentle. "Don't you want to stop? Rest? Just put the gun down and it'll be over." He hesitated, looking between them. West took a step towards him, and the gun swiveled again. "Benny, _please_ put it down. Please stop. Don't you want to? C'_mon_, Benny."

"Yeah." The gun lowered. "Yeah, I want to." West took another careful step. The gun flashed up and three shots fired simultaneously, all at Ben.

_Maggie_. West rushed to help her straighten to a sitting position. She bit off a cry at the motion. "Ribs." Her voice sounded older again. "They'll keep." Instinctively, he used his hand to brush – things – from her face and hair. She couldn't suppress a shudder, but she tried. "Go on, finish it. I'll be fine."

She looked anything but fine. But she was right. He clapped her shoulder once, collected a few things and ducked out the back door.

Hidden between the cars, West watched and listened. _One guard, each side of the train_. The flare of a match and the glow of a cigarette from one side, the crunch and snap of gravel and twigs from the other. He crouched under the platform as they approached the end of the car.

"Put that damned thing out!" the noisy one hissed. "Don't you know any better?"

Grumbling, the smoker crushed it against the platform and let it fall. Noisy moved on. Smoker bent quickly to pick up the fallen cigarette, lighting another match to locate it. The gleam of West's gun butt was his last sight for the evening.

Noisy came back. "I can't see anything; they've got the shades down. How about you?" No answer, and his hoarse whisper got louder. "Hey, Dusell!" Where the hell are you?" The footsteps crunched between the cars until his foot thudded into the soft heap that was Dusell. A second later, the heap was twice as high.

_Four to go_. West crept quietly out along the train. A sudden scramble in the dark, ahead of him; he bobbed and dodged backwards. It scurried away from him and he soon heard the sound of a horse's hooves receding into the distance. _Three_.

The agents' car looked empty, as far as he could tell from ground level. The next car housed the automobile, horses and the rolling cell. Voices and activity here, on the other side of the train.

Crouched on the platform, he peeked into the agents' car. No people, but a heap of collected plunder included their weapons. The door to the stable car was ajar and he watched the remaining raiders struggle to lower the ramp to the ground. His agents and crew were stuffed in the cell, near the opposite door.

The ramp in place and the limo wrestled into position, one man took the driver's seat. He fought with the shift until it jerked into neutral largely by process of elimination – or, more likely, chance. The other two raiders pushed the car forward while the driver tried to get it started. Momentum sent it over the edge and down the ramp, with no brakes involved.

West bolted in as the raiders bolted out. Freed, his men spilled from the cell. They soon had things back under their control.

West delegated the cleanup, having the men transfer survivors to the cell and telegraph for help. The bonfire of wagons which brought the train to a standstill would have to be removed and any scheduled trains needed to be warned off and re-routed. Fort Huachuca was sending men to take custody of the prisoners, for now. The fort doctor was summoned, as well.

Maggie was in the same position as he had left her, leaning against the back wall. Her gun was trained on the door, but she let it drop when she saw them. He helped her to her feet, supporting her there as he gave orders to the men, then to her room and a low-backed wooden chair.

"They're broken, all right, but I don't think they're displaced. Just really badly cracked." was her diagnosis. "No blood when I cough, no feeling of suffocation. They hurt like…" She winced, tight-lipped. "I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count."

"Still minding my delicate sensibilities, Miss Gordon?" West splashed water into a basin and started to collect supplies in brief forays down the hall.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to ignore them. I've got to be strapped up." Maggie's matter-of fact tone was at odds with her expression. She suddenly looked very young.

"I know. This isn't exactly my first rodeo."

"No, really?" She caught the reassurance behind his banter and continued it. "I'd never have guessed."

He had everything he needed now. "Can you turn, if I help you?"

She knew what he meant and together they got her around, to sit on the chair backwards. Her left arm rose to rest on the low back without too much trouble, but the pain from working her right arm into the same position nearly caused her to pass out. With shears, he started to cut away the pajama top.

"Hey, I like those!" she objected.

"I'll buy you a new pair." Snip. "I am not washing these." Snip. "Neither are you." The top came away in pieces.

Arms out of the way, it went fairly quickly. The first turns of bandage were the tightest, and the most painful. Her forehead beaded sweat, her eyes and nose ran, but she stayed conscious and didn't cry out, save for a few gasps.

Nothing in her wardrobe would go on without too much manipulation. West brought in one of his shirts and eased it onto her, buttoning it efficiently. "Better?"

"Much." Standing, the shirt came nearly to her knees, making it possible to remove the pajama bottoms with a little modesty left over. They joined the top in the wastebasket. "You know, you keep hanging around me, you're going to run out of clothes."

"I'll risk it. Let's get you to bed." Once she was settled in, he ran a damp cloth over her face and hair. "I've got to get back. Will you be okay?"

"Sure, I'll be fine." She waved her good hand, closing her eyes. He started to get up. "West."

"What?"

"I'm still not your responsibility." _Not again_. "But I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah." He rested a hand on her shoulder. "Try to sleep, Spud. I'll be back soon."


	10. Chapter 10 Over

West was alone. The lights were dimmed in the parlor car, except for his desk lamp._ Last night on the train_. They'd pull into Washington late tomorrow. It was hard to sleep, even though the heat had broken days ago.

The agents had already returned to other assignments. Washington sent the train back to pick them up, after Maggie's stay at Saint Mary's in Tucson. West stayed with her as a bodyguard, citing the Wanted posters that still surfaced in odd places and times. The Sisters had resisted his presence as a government agent, but accepted it after Maggie told them he was also her godfather. _Well, it's not quite a lie. I would have been_.

"Do you know it's two in the morning?" Maggie was in the doorway, lawn-and-lace covered by a worn dressing gown.

"Yeah. What are you doing up?"

She crossed to the settee, a little too carefully. "Waiting for the aspirin to take effect. How about you?"

"You know, the doctor said you could take your tincture for another two weeks."

"I know what he said, but laudanum is serious business. I don't like being that helpless."

"You didn't seem to mind it at the time." West deadpanned. "You were too busy snoring."

She gave him a dirty look, lips pressed and eyes slitted. "Okay, I don't like – you know da…perfectly well what I mean." He grinned and, after a moment, so did she. "And you're dodging the question. If you don't want to tell me why you're awake, just say so."

"Just thinking."

"Mmm." Her eyes flicked over the new papers on his desk, but she left it alone. They sat in companionable silence; West working, Maggie drowsing against the armrest.

After a long while, West looked up again. "Jerry – Director Pike – sent these while you were in the hospital." She opened an eye. "They found Weldon's man at the school."

"Really? Who?"

"Carrick." The guard at her door.

"But he was hurt." Maggie looked as shocked as West had felt. "I saw him; that was real. It doesn't make sense."

West exhaled. "Unfortunately, it does. He confessed. They blackmailed him. He put the files on my desk." West rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. "He says he would have drawn the line at hurting you. When they told him he had to let somebody in, he almost balked – but he did it."

"They nearly killed him." She closed her eyes, shaking her head. "It must have been a big secret."

"He won't tell us. My guess is, he's protecting a family member."

"Oh, God, he has sisters." _She would know that_. "Well, it doesn't matter, does it? You don't _need_ to know."

"Yes, we do. I'd like to take his word that it doesn't affect the Service, but we can't. We'll try to keep it from becoming public."

Her mind was working again. "They might have had dozens over the years, all over the place. How will you ever find them all?"

"We won't find them all. Weldon kept some records, but they're not very good." _However, a distinguished gentleman has just resigned to spend more time with his family_. Weldon had invested heavily and, to a certain extent, successfully.

"So he didn't make his own stuff, couldn't run a business honestly, and he was even a lousy blackmailer? Could this guy do anything well?"

West shook his head. "He never thought he had to."

She winced. "Hell of an epitaph." Her eyes flickered to the fireplace and away. "West?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you live where…things like this happened?"

He knew what she meant. "You just make up your mind that this is your turf. They can't have it." He studied her. "The Battle of Grady's. Remember?"

"Yeah." She studied the room deliberately, then moved on. "Well, I don't live here. I need to figure where I will be living, exactly." She answered his look. "Other people manage it. I can, too."

"I know you can. Where will you go?"

She considered. "I think I'd better stay east for a while, until the posters are gone. Maybe I'll go check out the family stomping grounds in New York." She smiled ruefully. "Wherever I find a job, really."

"What about the Service? The other family stomping grounds?"

She shook her head gently. "That would be…complicated. I mean, it's a lot better now, but still. Best not." At least she sounded regretful. "Do you ever end up knowing everything?"

"Hardly ever. It's a good end when you know all the important things. What do you want to know?"

"I can guess what happened to Joe." _Joe_? Then he remembered. _Dr. Giuseppe Costa, from San Francisco. Joe_. "But I'm never gonna know where he's buried."

West got up from the desk and crossed to the settee. "Move over." He sat between her and the armrest and put his arm around her, pulling her gently against his shoulder. She leaned in, face against his shirt.

"Not much question how my father ended up at Grady's, either." She paused. "Do you think he was followed when he left?"

"Could be." _I thought – I knew I had everybody placed. That shot came out of nowhere_. He tensed with an old anger and she looked up, concerned. "Ghosts."

"Mmm." She nodded. They sat silent for a long few minutes. Then, briskly, "Well, so. How do you get a bank to transfer money cross-country? I have some in Dogtown; it should get me a place to live while I look for work."

"I'll show you. But I think you should stay with me until your ribs heal."

"They're not going to put up with that, you know." She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Not at the school." He straightened to look down at her. "At my house."

"You have a house?!" Maggie straightened, too, pulling away. "Isn't that funny, I never thought…Of course, you have a house." She cocked her head at him. "When are you there?"

He laughed. "Well, not much lately." Then he sobered. "Or you could stay at a hotel. You can afford it." He wasn't laughing now.

"Umm…what?" Wary again. "What are you talking about? Not that damned pension."

"No, I know better." West got up and retrieved two pieces of paper from the desk. "Read these."

She glanced at both quickly. "_Two_ wills?"

"Two wills." Her eyes widened as she read. "His lawyer in Sacramento drew up the one for George Sanderson. It looks like he wrote the other in his own name."

"How drunk was he?" She put it down. "There's no way this stands up in court."

"We've had it checked out. It's in his handwriting, legally witnessed, and very clear."

It was also one of the strangest documents West had ever seen. Very detailed, if a bit rambling, and modeled carefully after the official will, it left all holdings, property and accounts to Elizabeth Gordon or, in the event of her death, to Maggie. The only proviso was that Weldon's death could not have been caused by the Gordons, Pat Grady, or by any representative, past or present, of the United States government. In that event, Ben was to inherit.

"He never thought he was going to lose. Why would he even keep this?"

West shrugged. "A game. He was upping the ante. If you won, you'd lose a fortune. He was obsessed with money."

"And if we lost, we'd die. Some game." Maggie shivered. "You think Ben knew about it?"

"I imagine Weldon mentioned it." _He wouldn't have been able to resist_.

She looked at the paper in her lap as if it was a scorpion. "Well, he wasn't of sound mind. I don't think he was ever of sound mind. And what about the government?" Her brow creased and she looked sidelong at him. "They froze it all already. Aren't they just going to keep it?"

"It's not all ill-gotten." An exasperated her response. "Maggie, we're not going to challenge this. It's decided. It belonged to you the minute Weldon died. I think you should take it."

"Jaysus. I have a problem with the damned pension." She exhaled. "How do you think I feel about this?"

"If anybody ever owed it to you, he did." He hugged her shoulders lightly again. "Sell everything. Take the money and live where you want."

"Yeah, but would my skin ever stop crawling?"

"No rush, just think about it. We still have to debrief, get you healed…"

"De what?"

West laughed at her expression. "It's a meeting, the end of the assignment. We make an official report and answer questions. Until then, you still have to follow orders."

"How soon can we get there?" Maggie looked so mischievous that he ruffled her hair. She swatted his hand away, laughing. Then she quieted. "Hey."

She sounded reluctant. West tensed, just a little. "What?"

"Could you…Would you ever want to…tell me about him, some time?" _Not reluctant, just unsure_. "You know. My father."

"Yeah, I know." _Boy, do I know_. "How about now?"

Maggie settled back. "Now's good."


End file.
